Shakvail: Beginnings
by Mechalich
Summary: Before the outbreak of the Clone Wars a young woman rises from obscure origins to find her way as a Jedi Knight.
1. Foundling

**Shakvail: Foundling**

**Lantillies System**

**Lantillian Sector**

**Mid Rim**

**47 BBY**

Blasterfire impacted the bulkheads in a brilliant storm, red rain sizzling and popping as it discharged massive quantities of energy. The air crisped, heated, and charged, until everyone's hair stood on end. Over the fiery din could be heard the crueler sounds of battle, the screams of pain and death as plasmatic power found all-too-vulnerable flesh.

"Hold position men!" Captain Lorthan's voice stood steady against that furious cacophony, rising through his shoulder-mounted comlink to reach his fellows. "We can't let them push us out into the open!"

The strong words were in contrast to the situation, one growing more dangerous by the moment. Trapped in a long corridor, ricochets were claiming as many hits as aimed shots, and the rate of fire seemed sure to doom all combatants on both sides soon enough.

Z'meer dared a glance around cover, letting her eyes add to the sensation she was already feeling, the myriad cauldron of brutal emotions pervading from the pirates beyond, and the steady, tightly wound resolve of the Sector Rangers who fought to push through this final defensive line. Too many had fallen to reach this point, this final redoubt of criminality, for her to stand idly by. Yet she demurred, uncertain of the course to take, of what she could do to shift the deadlock and bring victory.

Her heart cried out for a heroic charge to break the jumbled line of covered crates that protected the pirates, but her head refused such foolishness. Even a Jedi could not wade through such a concentrated firestorm.

"Captain!" Z'meer shouted, drawing a quick nod from the distracted officer, his attention consumed by directing fire teams. "How do we break through?"

"Have to…flank…these kriffers…get close enough…for grenades…" Lorthan's voice was hoarse, his focus elsewhere, and Z'meer knew she must find a way to implement this plan alone.

Grenades.

A fallen Sector Ranger lay near, a young man stolen from life too early, but his belt contained several of the deadly little cylinders. Scrambling, Z'meer ripped it free, heedless of the sanctity of the dead in these desperate straits. She palmed one of the explosive devices, feeling the weight, grasping the essence of the thing in the Force. It had a vile feel, crude, random, almost sadistic, but its efficacy was without doubt.

Seizing on a tiny, momentary gap in the oncoming barrage, she popped up and threw, letting the Force impart an impossible strength and speed to the toss.

Some pirate shot it halfway.

The explosion ripped through the corridor, sending chunks of roughly hewn asteroid in every direction, clouding and obscuring everything for a few seconds.

Both sides fired through this haze regardless, not daring a slack moment.

Z'meer bit her lip in irritation, very un-Jedi like, but she failed to so much as notice. There had to be another way.

She considered several options, but quickly dismissed them all as juvenile, the product of her limited understanding of tactics.

"A crate, Jedi! Throw a crate!" the captain had seen her action, and he had his own suggestion. Feverishly he pointed to one of the large plasteel boxes his men hid amongst, this one now protecting only a corpse.

It was over fifty meters to the enemy position. Could she throw such a large object so far? Z'meer had never done it before.

She would, she decided, because she must. That was all.

Reaching out with her strength in the Force she grabbed the crate, surrounding it in a halo of energy. It rose from the floor at her command, and began to move.

It was not fast enough, she saw almost immediately, her pull was insufficient. It had to be stronger, quicker. It had to rush down on them!

That was the answer, Z'meer saw in the next instant, and her image shattered, reforming in the same continuous moment to a new, alternative conception. Everything moved together, all of them spinning through space inside a modest conglomeration of rock, held in place by a mighty invisible grasp of power called gravity. She need not pull or push to increase speed, but simply to borrow a little bit from elsewhere, so the fit was changed ever so slightly.

Barreling down faster than a combat airspeeder, the crate rammed toward the pirate defenses.

They shot it; they hit it with their grenades; they launched a towing cable at it.

It shattered into pieces under this attack, but did not stop, did not slow, for Z'meer's will maintained its momentum. A flying shell became a flurry of shrapnel, all the more deadly for its dispersion.

The screams slid into the Force upon impact.

A wash of cold poured over the Jedi, and her concentration broke beneath that overwhelming icy wave. Gasping for breath and blinking wildly she barely processed as the captain bellowed his next command.

"Charge!"

The sector rangers surged forward, and Z'meer, still numb and buried beneath this strangely beautiful and terrible revelation, struggled to follow.

Her focus was restored a moment later, as the invasion of an oncoming blaster bolt jolted her into the present once again.

She raised her lightsaber to block, and the attack flashed harmlessly into the ceiling.

More attacks followed, but they were few, and diffuse, and with Jedi speed the distance was covered in mere moments. Z'meer's glowing blade cleaved through an outstretched arm that tried to raise a blaster against her, and then pivoted to cut down a man reaching for a grenade. She turned to cut through to other pirates, men pulling long vibroknives from the floor. Blasterfire echoed around her as the sector rangers attacked.

Then there were no more targets, the pirates broke and ran.

"Push! Push them!" Lorthan waved his men ahead, exhorting them to further effort, building on the sudden rush of victory, the moment of break-through.

Armored commandos ran ahead, deeper and deeper into the base. Z'meer ran with them, at the head of the charge, her brilliant azure blade lighting the way.

Occasional fire from desperate pirates flashed back, only to be batted away by the Jedi's blade and swiftly silenced by a flurry of targeted counterfire. With no time to mount a concerted defense, the onslaught could not be resisted.

"Jedi Bothu!" Lorthan called as they came to a branch in the path through the asteroid base. "Take Squad Two and advance!"

"Sir!" Z'meer assented, never pausing, leading the adrenalin-infused lawmen further into the bastion of their broken foes.

They blew through crew quarters, then briefly traded fire in the cafeteria before the Jedi launched a table into a cluster of opponents, and cut onward into engineering, where a lightsaber slipped through tight gaps among power generators to sever the weapons of the last holdouts.

The fight was gone from the pirates then, and they fell to the floors, leaving their weapons. Rangers moved over them quickly, slapping on binders and huddling them against the wall. Z'meer felt the euphoric feeling of victory slide through the Force, washing over her and buoying her up with great strength.

Yet it was tinged by a strange, darkened feeling.

"Jedi Bothu," Lorthan's voice came over the comlink, sounding oddly rushed. "They're surrendering, but the captain and his XO had a secret tunnel, they've made a break through it to the cargo bays."

"I'm moving," Z'meer launched into motion, already understanding her objective through the insight of the Force without needing further explanation.

"You're the only one who can backtrack in time to cut them off," the captain concluded as the Jedi drew deeply on the Force, pulling strength into muscle and tissue, powering her legs in great running bounds as she sprang over bulkheads and stacked pallets to make a beeline for the entry, now so far behind them.

"We're repelling down the tunnel now," the captain updated, his breathing heavy. "They must have a ship secured in one of the holding areas; wall they can blow out to break free."

The tunnels of the asteroid twisted and contorted in strange directions, compelled by the arbitrary grasp of localized gravity generators into frightful three-dimensional mazes that defied a traditional construction. Z'meer, impelled by the Force to hurry, feeling a terrible rising dread she did not fully comprehend, swam through them with ease, flashing past confused Sector Rangers from the secondary containment unit.

The horizon, confined to only a few dozen meters at best in most of the tunnels, opened up into a vast space as she returned to the hangar bay. This expansive field several hundred meters in length had been blasted into the side of the asteroid, and now smoldered with the shattered hulks of pirate vessels. Abandoned to the toxics released by the violent incursion of lawmen, only a handful of pilots stood at station inside their vessels now.

Z'meer paused for a single breath to take control of her breathing, excising Jedi techniques to purify the air before it passed her lips. Then she ran onward.

A wide, square passage led down from the hangar bay to the cargo regions, lower in the asteroid than the living quarters recently seen in battle. Largely ignored in the attack plan, they had been monitored by nothing more than a pair of Rangers.

The Jedi saw the bodies of both men as she entered, cut down by a swift surprise attack. There was no sign of the enemy, only a high vaulted room, roughly blasted free of the stubby celestial rock, flattened and paved by conscripted droids, and piled high with stolen goods in large containers. Somewhere, buried deep inside one of those bulky durasteel blocks, Z'meer knew a hidden starfighter was secured, the final escape plan of the cornered pirates.

She needed to know where.

Without a trail to follow, the Jedi turned to the other resource available, the Force. Stretching her awareness out widely, she reached across the cargo bay, feeling for the concentrated, vibrantly sparkling crystallizations of energy that marked sentient beings.

Her eyes went wide at the abundance.

"Captain, be advised, there are people down here," Z'meer called into the comlink, rushing ahead among the towering piles.

"Say again, Jedi Bothu, say again," Lorthan's confusion was readily apparent. "People?"

"Yes sir," Z'meer's mind was elsewhere, searching, seeking, and trying to discern the foul presence of two pirates amid this unexpected profusion of life. "Dozens, perhaps over a hundred, hidden somewhere down here."

"More pirates?" the ranger's worried voice carried in the electrical static.

"Negative," the Jedi could feel the intent, and it was frightened, positively terrified, and not hostile. "Probably captives of some kind."

"All commands, be advised that we have civilians in the cargo bay, there is the possibility of a hostage situation," Lorthan transmitted on the wide channel, the words clear in Z'meer's ear. "Jedi Bothu," he continued on the private link. "Have you found the captain?"

"Not yet," Z'meer cautioned, her eyes momentarily closed as she struggled to focus. Then, feeling the energy of the moment as she had before, she caught a whirl in the flow, and following it to a dark core of menace. "Wait…" she paused momentarily, tapping her wrist display, struggling to recall the commands for the mapping program the rangers used. "North side…point one-four-eight!"

"Move men!" Lorthan's challenge could be heard audibly now, echoing off durasteel from deeper in the cargo bay.

Z'meer dared not wait; she could sense the pressure of time upon them all. She must act, and now.

She dashed ahead.

The many lives pushed closer.

"There you are!" The Jedi came to a halt beneath a pile of massive containers, each half the size of a light freighter, all dark black and filled.

The pirates were at the top, six blocks above the floor, a full thirty meters high.

Z'meer's cry was met by a precision burst of blasterfire.

Crouched atop his high perch, the pirate's Trandoshan XO let loose with his prized sniper rifle; a weapon that had, according to official security reports, claimed over seventy lives.

Z'meer was ready, and her lightsaber activated in the path of the oncoming bolt.

The red bolt struck the blue blade at an almost perfect perpendicular. It deflected back in a straight line, just as it had come.

Reflected back to its source, the particle beam discharge traveled up the barrel and into the core of the sniper rifle at the speed of light.

The detonation flung the now-headless Trandoshan a dozen meters.

A second, far larger explosion followed the first.

"Kriff!" Z'meer let loose a rare obscenity as she scampered backwards, using a Force-assisted leap to put a container between her and her target.

The topmost container disintegrated in a massive fireball. At the same moment a small, sleek starfighter, one of the newer Headhunters, blasted free.

Bright red and painted with a leering, toothy maw on the side, the fighter launched a pair of missiles within seconds of emergence, sending them directly at the far wall of the bay.

The wall disintegrated. What had appeared to be rough blasted brown asteroid stone was in nothing more than a layer of cleverly painted foamy plastic overlaid atop a slender durasteel partition. The missiles pierced this as if it were flimsy.

Z'meer saw this out of the corner of her eye, for it was not her focus. Even as the howling wind of decompression rose through the vast hole now exposing the cargo bay to space, her attention was elsewhere. Her eyes sought, and then identified, a large jagged edged piece of wreckage from the burst container.

Size matters not. Master Yoda had said this many times. In that moment, fire raging against unnatural wind, she saw its truth in full.

Exerting the fullness of her will she grabbed the durasteel shard, aimed, and invoked a single massive burst of power.

The Headhunter, swinging around to pass through the opening it had just created, never saw the attack.

Metal struck metal with a hideous howling tearing wail. One engine buckled, screeched, and died. A second sputtered, sparked, and then burst apart in a shower of flaming debris. The fighter wobbled drunkenly in the air, struggling to stay aloft. Huge portions of the fuselage were gone, and the cockpit canopy was puckered with holes.

Life remained within, the Jedi could feel it.

A moment more, and she was struck by a surge of utter darkness. A terrible malevolence built within the pirate captain, cruel, vengeful, and utterly amoral, channeling immense potency.

Somehow the pirate pulled his fighter around for one final pass.

Z'meer felt puzzlement, then horror, when she realized what was about to happen.

The headhunter was pointed directly at the containers full of living souls.

"No!" Z'meer shouted, lungs aching from the strength of her scream. She raised her hands, eyes rolled back, grabbing for everything she could in the Force.

Missiles fired.

A great hand of power, strong, warm, and protective, interposed itself in front of the starfighter.

Two concussion missiles impacted it only to be smashed aside, hurled harmlessly outward into space.

The Jedi collapsed to the deck, drained, but smiling.

The Headhunter's path continued unabated.

No words escaped Z'meer's mouth this time, as she tried to grab with the Force, only to find her strength gone, her hands empty, the moment lost.

Impelled by the despair of villainy, the Z-95 impacted a container.

The explosion knocked Z'meer off her feet, throwing her hard against nearby containers as all shifted and shook. She struggled to rise.

"Jedi Bothu, come in! Come in!" Lorthan's voice over the comlink restored Z'meer to her senses.

"I am here captain," sadness laced her words, a melancholy seeping deeper with each moment. "And it seems I am whole." She felt no injures to her body, only her spirit.

"What about the civilians?" the sector ranger demanded.

"They are…" she started to say 'lost,' only to feel something else. Many lives had indeed gone dark in the fighter's impact, but the glow remained elsewhere. She could feel it, there were survivors. "There are survivors captain!" the Jedi surged to her feet. "Hurry, I will point the way."

In great bounds, the Force filling her, Z'meer rose up, heedless of flames and superheated shrapnel, or the rapidly draining atmosphere. She landed atop a container three ranks above the floor, one filled with life. Terror radiated from it, and pain from the recent tremors, but those within were whole. Hope surged in her. She had not failed entirely.

"Containment!" Lorthan ordered. "I need every spare hand to seal this hull breach. Move people, lives are at stake. Move!"

"I will do what I can to preserve air here," Z'meer echoed the concerns. The container she rested upon was not sealed; decompression could still kill these lucky ones.

Sitting down cross-legged, in the classic posse of meditation; Z'meer closed her eyes, banishing the rest of the galaxy, of all her emotions, regrets, and preceding events. For now there was only her, the rectangular durasteel box, and a great mass of oxygen and nitrogen. She would maintain the togetherness of this tableau as long as it must be done.

"You sure you're good to go?" Lorthan asked Z'meer again.

"Yes captain," the Jedi responded, trying to hide the fatigue in her voice. "I will be fine." Privately she acknowledged she was anything but. Two hours holding herself in the Force to preserve atmospheric integrity of her little corner of reality had left her drained such as she had not experienced since the end of her Trials, but she would not slink away to a bunk now; she dared not miss what was about to happen.

The Sector Rangers had managed to patch the hull breach with firefighting foam, emergency sheeting and large quantity of commandeered agricultural plastic from one of the plundered containers. There was still leakage, but the seal would hold for long enough to conclude operations. Most of the lawmen were dispersed now, rounding up pirate survivors, slicing the raider's networks, and inventorying seized criminal property. Those not presently occupied with such duties, or collapsed into their own well-deserved rest, waited near the Jedi.

Everyone wanted to help crack open the container.

The burnt and shattered ruins of the destroyed receptacle were nearby, a horrifically grim sight of ruined bodies and torn limbs. Over forty individuals had been identified already, and Lorthan's men estimated there might have been twice that. "Raid victims," the corpsman assigned the grim duty had explained with heavy eyes. "Taken to be sold as slaves no doubt, it's mostly women and young men."

Now they would see what the other contained.

"Crack it," Lorthan gave the command, knowing they had waited long enough. A pair of engineers wielded deft plasma cutters on the bolts and bars, slicing through cleanly and carefully, so as to avoid damaging anyone who might be pressed against the door. Medics were standing by, knowing there would be injuries, though Z'meer could feel that there was no one dead within. She suspected the inside was heavily padded, as the other had been.

The door opened. Crying filled the cargo bay.

"Kids…there's nothing but younglings…" the engineer gasped as his glowrod passed over them all.

Z'meer rushed forward, confirming these words with her own eyes.

All those within were children, very young indeed, the oldest could not have been more than ten, and most were much below even that. They were packed together in auto-cribs and cradles, held in tiny spaces in the dark, divorced from contact and left to shiver in fright at every shift and shock. The Jedi's mouth hung open, unable to believe this madness, and astonished that she had failed to notice it in the Force. The sensation of fear and pain must have overwhelmed it, or so she must assume.

"Stang, that was one sick Sithspawn kriffer," the captain's profanity-laced comment struck Z'meer as entirely appropriate. "Sergeant," he called to one of the engineers. "Get word planetside right away. Contact Lantillies Security HQ, tell them what we've got, and get some kind of specialized unit up her on the double."

"Sir!"

"Get those kids out of there, now. Move it people!" The orders came quickly, and soon rangers were at work dismantling the various apparatus and carrying small children up out of the desolate bay toward their dropships. Most began screaming the moment they came into the light.

Lorthan turned to Z'meer, his face wan. "We're not equipped for this sort of thing," he looked plaintively at the children. "Anything you can do?"

"There are Jedi with considerable skill in childcare," Z'meer offered weakly. "But I am not one of them." She could not look away from those sorrowful faces, however, and her fatigue faded, steadily replaced by a need to act. "I will do what I can despite that, until help arrives." Raising her head high, she walked forward into the container.

Though the sound was completely different in source and nature than the rage of blasterfire that had assaulted the ears earlier, the interior of this cruel lightless box was an auditory assault equally if not more terrible. Little throats, and other nameless auditory organs belonging to alien species, wailed, hollered, and moaned, a deafening attack that was more emotional than physical. It took every ounce of Jedi calm Z'meer possessed to remain silent and focused at the moment.

Most of the rangers were far less controlled, and a steady stream of brutal profanity, consigning the pirates to a series of inventive and exhaustive post-mortem torments, soon filled the thick air.

The rangers were quick, efficient men, and driven now by an impulse to treasure and protect the young common to the vast majority of the galaxies sentients. The heavily male-dominated attack team bounded forward, a visceral expression of paternal feeling. Constraining cages and barriers were ripped apart, strong arms were thrown gently around small bodies, and the little screamers were passed from hand to hand like the precious parcels they were.

Z'meer did not join in this, having little to add to the enthusiasm of the lawmen. Instead she walked all the way into that darkened chamber, past the dozens of crouched forms. She estimated close to seventy in all, representing almost half that many species. "Leftovers," the word slipped her mouth in sick disgust, as her emotions overwhelmed her resolve. She had to suppress despair at the thought of all those others, captured on brutal raids of little-known systems, sold into cruel bondage no doubt in nearby Hutt Space. The loss struck to her core, and she vowed to fight harder in the future, to prevent such tragedies and strengthen the weakened Republic.

Brutal though it was to do, the Jedi expanded her awareness around the space, taking her impressions of the younglings. She searched for deep pain, wounds beyond bruising or fright, and the signs of serious injury, whether physical or mental. Healing was not her gift, but she could soften the hurt and direct the needy to professional attention.

Her hopes that there would be nothing were soon dashed, and she made one trip, and then two more. One internal hemorrhage, the second some sort of dangerous virus, and the last some sort of hideous social phobia Z'meer's human psychology could not even properly comprehend; all were found on younglings not more than five. The Jedi passed these on to the corpsman with the best notes she could, and then charged back in, hurrying lest her willpower fail.

Mercifully, nothing else stabbed at her senses. Instead, she was left standing in the darkness as the rangers moved on to the last of the children. Most of these did not scream, only murmured and moaned weakly, too neglected, tired, and dehydrated to vocalize strongly.

Armored in the Force, with her senses heightened, Z'meer noticed everything, and oddities most of all. So she was the first to discover that one of these children was silent.

She laid on the floor, in the second-to-last row, a female child in a rough smock and nothing more. She could not have been more than two years old at most. Though silent, the child did not sleep, and Z'meer looked down upon her only to be met by a bold stare from strange, intermixed blue-black eyes. The infant's body was humanoid, and had a clearly human frame and structure, but with subtle differences. Her rough scraggly mop of hair was an oddly mingled combination of matte black and crimson red, randomly assorted. Her skin was a pale, faded orange-yellow, reminding the Jedi of nothing so much as the ancient paper documents hanging in the Archives. The eyes were the most notable discrepancy, shaped to horizontal pendant raindrops, long and wide in the head.

Even as she studied this unusual outcast, the Jedi could not shake the impression that she too was being measured.

Carefully Z'meer reached down. She unstrapped the child from the barely functional autocrib that held her, prying away the improvised restraints with a few quick Force-enhanced tugs. The body was astonishingly light as she lifted it, a clear sign of malnutrition, and the Jedi stifled a grimace at this harsh treatment.

The girl did not make a sound even as Z'meer's clothed arms wrapped around her, continuing to stare deeply at the Jedi instead. It set strange bells of recollection ringing inside the Jedi's mind. She hurriedly brought the child out with the rest.

"Corpsman," Not possessed of any concrete intentions, Z'meer passed her bundle of oddities over to the medic along with the rest.

"Is this one hurt too Jedi?" the ranger, his spirit clearly flagging at the onslaught of suffering that had been foisted onto his shoulders in such a short span, looked at her wearily.

"No," Z'meer gave a single, understated shake of the head. "She appears generally whole, but I would like to have a copy of her blood work if possible." The impulse teased at the Jedi, and she knew investigation was essential.

"Alright, I'll get to work," the overstressed officer responded.

There was nothing more for Z'meer to do, much as it pained her and left her feeling helpless. She fingered her lightsaber, clipped again to her belt, and wondered. Speculation brought no easy answers, only the recognition that now was not to the time to meditate. Instead she went in search of the captain, for the day was far from done.

"Awful mess, wasn't it Bothu?" Lorthan muttered idly, looking out into the sprawling mess of the cargo hold. Dozens of children rested there, mostly on makeshift cots and piles of emergency blankets. They were tended by overwhelmed medics, medical droids, and a bevy of well-meaning but poorly trained volunteers from the rest of the crew. The med bay had nowhere near the space needed for an operation of this capacity, and so an excess of ranger assault gear, ship's stores, and repair parts had been pushed against walls or stacked dangerously high to make room in the hold.

Providing space for seventy-nine children, all young and most in need of considerable medical care, was a challenge the _Lawarm_ had not been designed to meet. At least the Corellian Corvette, designed to accommodate Lorthan's assault unit, had enough space. Most Sector Ranger vessels were far smaller.

"Shame about the parents, kriffing pirate scum," the captain amended. "But you saved the kids at least. That's something."

It was not enough, and Z'meer could not entirely hide her shame and regret at the failure to anticipate her enemy's true cruelty. She did not say anything, finding no need for words.

"Slavery and all the associated charges'll get added to the usual piracy, grand theft and the like though," the lawman's voice was icy cold. "Lantillies doesn't much like pirates, got a strong set of spacer's fellowship here. With the slavery, well, our boys are liable to eat the bolt."

"Will that help?" Z'meer was curious, not judgmental, even though the Force would counsel mercy.

"Maybe," Lorthan shrugged, his ambivalence revealed. "Some say it's a deterrent, and maybe the threat keeps a pirate here or there from going over to slaving for a quick score. Who can say what motivates beings who cross those lines though?"

This struck the Jedi as a fair point, and one worthy of greater examination in the future. So many, slain by the pirate leader out of nothing more than spite; perhaps understanding might armor her against future mistakes, vile though it was to contemplate that mindset.

Not wishing to delve the problem deeper with the stinging sense of loss so fresh, Z'meer looked outward, changing the topic. "When will someone come for them?" She nodded toward the children.

The captain blinked, the question was unexpected. "Ah, a few hours or so. We're working with the locals to get a liner up here with social services people. It's a big mess to sort out."

"I see," Z'meer turned, and walked down from the elevated rail, heading into the chaotic refugee of the hold. Lorthan followed, though the Jedi had not asked or expected it.

"All these kids are orphans now, more or less," the captain mumbled, vocalizing unsorted thoughts. "The pirate's data files are a mess, and they managed to purge a lot of data before trying to escape. No way to tell where all these kids came from, who their parents were, all that. My team's sorted the bodies and the debris, but there's only a few clues. Anyway, it all becomes Lantillies' problem soon enough, not our job."

Jurisdictional problems were commonplace in the life of the Sector Rangers, and of the Jedi. Z'meer made no pronouncements. It struck her that Lorthan was not dodging responsibility here; his men were not child caregivers.

"Word'll go out over the 'Net, try and get in touch with next of kin, see if anyone'll claim some of these kids, but I doubt it," the captain rambled, a numbing cynicism creeping into his speech, the words of a career officer who'd seen too much of a vast, coldly empty galaxy. "They'll end up in social services here, most like. Not so bad I guess, decent planet all around, lots of way worse worlds."

Infants, toddlers, and children watched them as they passed, though just as many looked away, or stared at nothing. Some were surely old enough to understand Basic, and the Jedi wondered if any recognized what was likely to be their fate now. It was a raw wound in her, for had she saved their parents as well, most would likely have been returned home.

"Jedi Bothu!" Z'meer caught the corpsman's hail from halfway across the cargo hold. She hurried to respond, dragging the captain in her wake.

Z'meer did not speak as she approached, but waited for the man to make his point. He did so rather hesitantly. "Um…I have the blood sample that you wanted," he muttered.

"And?" Z'meer took the datacard the man proffered, but sensed there was more; it was obvious enough that the Force was not required in the slightest.

"Well…" the corpsman hesitated, but a gesture from the captain opened his mouth. "It's just, there's a lot of species here, and some seem to be kind of rare. The database has come up blank for a full six. If there…well…"

"Sentientology is not my field," Z'meer answered, her lip quirking a bit. The assumptions made regarding Jedi knowledge could be very strange at times. "However, if you have the bioscan data I will forward the information on to the Jedi Temple and request a search of the Archives, our records are unmatched."

"Thank you."

"Tell me," a flash of insight prompted the Jedi's question. "Is the girl I spoke to you about one of the unidentified."

"Yes ma'am."

"I see," Z'meer paused, and then quickly appropriated an idle datapad from a nearby station. She plugged the datacard the corpsman had given her in and entered a simple command. At the same time, she walked toward the girl she had rescued hours earlier. Searching was not needed; she could already recognize the presence in the Force.

The girl lay in her crib, asleep now, but strangely at ease, only lightly touched by loss. Too young to understand, Z'meer guessed, looking at those raindrop eyes.

The Jedi brought up the readout. It confirmed her suspicions. "She is Force-Sensitive."

This drew the expected gasps from the rangers.

"An orphan, and still very young," Z'meer opined, considering aloud though her mind was essentially made up. "She must go to the Temple."

"How's she gonna get there?" Lorthan was a practical man, and reasoned readily. "We've got to depart for Contruum for resupply and reassignment as soon as we get these kids off-loaded, and I doubt Lantillies will do it."

It was a brutal calculus, but essentially correct, and left the Jedi with only one real option. "I will take her there myself," she determined. Carefully, Z'meer turned to face Lorthan, raising her body fully upright. "I apologize, but I must leave your service for a time Captain. I hope to return posthaste."

The ranger saluted. "Been good to have you Bothu, we'll miss you. Get back out here soon as you can, the Rim needs Jedi."

Z'meer nodded.

A moment later she turned back to the child. "Did we recover anything?" she asked the corpsman. "Identification?"

"Her species is unknown, but one of the bodies had the same features," the medic explained, examining his own datapad for the record. "No hard data, but we recovered a flat print with her picture on it wrapped around a card. The explosion corrupted all the data, but it had 'Shakvail' written on the back."

"Shakvail," Z'meer whispered, looking down at the child. She felt the resonant echo in the Force at the expression. "Yes, that is her name." It was a small solace, but she took it. "It seems you have a new destiny Shakvail."

"We'll be jumping to hyperspace in one minute Mistress Bothu."

"Thank you MD," the Jedi told the droid. "Please secure our passenger, I am fine."

"As you wish."

Z'meer suppressed a sigh as the droid turned and traveled into the small bedroom of this little cabin. The MD-5 was a perfectly competent medical droid of course, well respected in much of the galaxy, but it was hardly optimized for childcare purposes. Nevertheless, it had been the best the Jedi could find in a short time and with a limited budget. It would keep Shakvail alive and comfortable until they reached Coruscant, a relatively shortly journey thankfully. After that the Jedi Fosterers would take over.

Sitting at her terminal, Z'meer pulled up her messages. The council had responded affirmatively to her request to seek training for her small charge, as she had known they would. They were all too eager to take anyone who met the requirements these days, strange origins or not. There was also a large set of files forwarded from the archives, detailing the request she had made regarding alien species from the corpsman's genetic typing. This she forwarded on happily.

Pausing, the Jedi looked at the file in greater detail, and then opened the report she knew corresponded to Shakvail.

Species: Safol; near-humans native to Dalenspir in the Sevetta Sector of the Outer Rim; discovered in 2322 BBY. Status: Extinct; xenocided by Sith Lord Syrin Clavine in 1315 BBY.

"Extinct?" Z'meer's mouth fell open in horror. "Impossible!"

The Jedi gathered herself together after a brief interlude. Of course it was impossible, Shakvail was alive, and therefore her species was not extinct, but must survive somewhere in the galaxy. Some hidden colony was likely found in the surrounding sectors.

Blinking, Z'meer recalled what she knew of Syrin Clavine, one of the more powerful Dark Lords of the New Sith Wars. A man who claimed descent from the original Sith Species, he had proclaimed all near-humans and humanoids to be abominations born of inbreeding and worse, and set out to purge them from the galaxy. Though eventually crushed by a group of alien Dark Lords who objected to this practice, he'd claimed to exterminate over one hundred species before his death.

History had proven those claims exaggerated, and many of those species had been rediscovered in subsequent centuries. The Jedi supposed Shakvail was simply the most recent. It was a pity they had no way to know where the other survivors might be.

"A torment to carry, for most," Z'meer considered, thinking on the idea. "But for a Jedi, perhaps a blessing."

No family, no species, no homeworld; though it had come at brutal cost, Shakvail was free of those basal attachments.

What kind of Jedi might she become?

**Notes**

Lantillies is a canon system, a shipping center on the Permlemian Trade Route in the Mid Rim.

Captain Lorthan is an original character, but the Sector Rangers are a canon law enforcement organization. Lorthan's assault unit is analogous to a modern day SWAT team.

Z'meer Bothu is a canon character, appearing in the 4-part Clone Wars comic Star Wars: General Grievous in a small supporting role. As this is twenty-seven years earlier I had cast her as a young, recently minted Jedi Knight at this time.

It is not clear exactly when the Z-95 Headhunter came into production, but it seems within the boundaries of that venerable product line (and there are a surprisingly small number of pre-Clone Wars starfighters in the canon).

Shakvail, the Safol species, their homeworld, and their history with the New Sith Wars are all entirely my own invention (also the date is given in the revised chronology out of convenience, the BBY/ABY system not yet extant). There is certainly plenty of room in the relatively unplumbed period of the New Sith Wars to create such a reference, as existing material focuses heavily on the final century of that conflict.


	2. Initiate

**Shakvail: Initiate**

**Coruscant**

**Coruscant Sector**

**Core Worlds**

**37 BBY**

The Jedi Temple rose high in the most auspicious of Coruscant's districts, and its towers even further into the sky of the great capital city. In this, it seemed to float above the buzzing, hazy maelstrom of activity that characterized the rest of the grand planet. While a trillion lives glittered, spun, and moved with the rapid-fire pulse of the heart of the galaxy, the Temple stood still, staid, and reflective.

Z'meer considered the image carefully, and determined the Temple, and perhaps the Jedi Order itself, served as an anchor for the ship of the Republic, awash in the galaxy's stormy seas. She found the simile most appropriate, and resolved to keep it in mind for the future. It was a heartening sign, finding something worthy of safekeeping in this particular moment.

The Jedi Knight sat cross-legged, floating several centimeters above the floor, in the southeast tower of the Temple. Her eyes were open, but she did not see visually. Instead, she looked only into the Force, searching inward, stretching toward her own truth. August presences surrounded her, pillars of strength and devotion to the Force. They numbered twelve; great Jedi all, the full strength of the High Council.

For a long while Z'meer sat, contemplating, meditating, a demonstration of calm, collective patience and understanding. She knew the import of this meeting, and would wait however long might be necessary until the Council had made its determination. If she failed that simple task, and gave in to ambition, she was resolved to refuse regardless of the decision rendered. It was the only just choice to make.

Words were spoken, level and plain, the tenor of everyday conversation, but each carried great weight. Twelve beings must come to a decision, and for approval to be granted it must be done unanimously and without coercion. Z'meer could not argue her case one way or another, it was unnecessary; she presented it simply by her very being. The truth lay in the Force; it was up to the Council to interpret it.

The Jedi did not hear the words; her awareness was elsewhere, for it would be a gross breach of decorum to listen in on these deliberations. To isolate oneself from that which was immediately proximate, while retaining essential awareness, that too was a test, and one that mattered now.

And yet, Z'meer felt at ease with it all, under no pressure whatsoever. She had scarce imagined that would be the case, whenever she thought of this day in the past, but now it all seemed unimportant. Her life would shift to a new stage, or not, but she would be happy either way.

When conversation ceased, it did so suddenly, and Z'meer knew immediately that a decision had been made.

She blinked once, and her vision returned from its far-away place to the normal everyday colors and brightness of the tower.

Mace Windu stood in front of her, with the other council members in a wide ring on all sides. All had left their seats, even the serpentine Master Rancisis and the diminutive Grand Master Yoda. They were clearly united, and it was Windu, as the Master of the Order, who presided.

That stern, strong face, always exuding readiness, was well known to Z'meer. She was only a few years younger than the Master of the Order. They had been initiates at the same time. Yet, though the features were instantly recognizable, she did not know the man behind them well. Mace Windu was a man of boundless talent and immense strength of will; his career had rapidly surpassed those of his peers, accomplishing more in a few short decades than Z'meer might hope to achieve in a lifetime.

Once, she might have felt vaguely envious of this, or at least wondered how anyone so young could rise so high, so quickly. No longer; she had come to understand that leaps in insight were irregular, and unpredictable in all walks of life, but especially in the Force. This applied to her own case before any others; a year ago she had believed this moment lay decades hence, and now, she was certain it was time.

"Z'meer Bothu," Mace Windu began, his voice holding that seemingly effortless depth and power that fit his current position so effectively in the public eye. "It has been determined that you have obtained skill and knowledge in the Force, and strength and resolution in everyday life such that you must be considered a Jedi Master. By the authority of the High Council, that rank is now bestowed upon you. Rise, Master Bothu."

They did not clap, it was completely unnecessary; Z'meer could feel the pride and goodwill all around her in the Force. She was a Master! It was seemingly impossible to believe and utterly inevitable all at once. She bowed her head gently. "I am honored; and I shall prove worthy of this distinction through word and deed."

As simple as that, it was done, the ceremony was complete, and nothing further formal was required.

"It seems we are adjourned," Windu noted, allowing himself a slight smile. The council began to disperse moments later.

Z'meer discovered she was at something of a loss as to her next step, and chose to remain in place for a time. This proved worthwhile, for she wound up exchanging greetings with several of the council members she knew personally, including Eeth Koth and Yarael Poof. Eventually she found herself walking from the chamber in the company of the esteemed Master Yoda.

"Most welcome an elevation, this is," the Grand Master began, and it was clear he had not chosen to escort the Order's newest master by chance. "Approaches, a time of crisis does; new voices must we have."

"I shall do all I can to preserve peace in the galaxy, Master," Z'meer resolved, as she always had. "I hope to return to the field very soon, there is much to do."

"And new skills you gained, yes," Yoda nodded, tapping along with his cane. "Master Fay, well she is?"

"As vibrant as ever," Z'meer agreed, recalling the legendary woman whose company she had left only a few months past. "Though she too is worried that recent developments sow the seeds of great peril."

"Much there is to do, of course," Yoda admitted, sounding old for perhaps the first time in the new master's experience. "Searching for a proper course, the Republic is; ready we must be, when the time comes."

"And we must preserve the peace until a decision can be reached," Z'meer argued, letting slip a bit of her belief. She knew the growing woes of the Republic, but surely the proper course of reform could be found, would be found. It would simply be difficult, any democracy as vast and discordant as the Republic could not move swiftly until poised upon the very brink of crisis. They would not seek the correct path out of the storm until the seas threatened to swamp them under. The Jedi must anchor them long enough for that moment to come.

"We must, agreed, but stretched thin we have become, so fast has the Republic grown."

That was one truth, but perhaps only half of it. Z'meer did not voice the second part, that perhaps the Jedi had become too strict, that they accepted too few students and failed too many of these, so their numbers would not grow. She did not truly believe this, the Jedi Code was immensely challenging and required great sacrifice, those chosen to devote themselves to it must be selected with great care, but she could not silence the voice of outsiders, especially those Sector Rangers she had long served beside, who pled constantly for more Jedi.

"Does the Council have duties for me?" Z'meer wondered. Traditionally masters had a great deal of leeway in such matters; trusted to follow the Force as it revealed its needs to each individual, but perhaps there was some symbolic task that she, as the newest master, might undertake for the betterment of the Order's standing.

"To your discretion the Council trusts," Yoda answered, merrily and without strain, but unexpectedly he added more. "Wonder I do, considered teaching have you?"

"I…I," Z'meer paused, though she kept walking, and her gaze glanced up to the light of the setting sun through the high windows. It calmed her surprise, and helped to order her thoughts. "I had, yes," she told Yoda. "I know I have not taken a Padawan before, but I decided that, should the Council advance me today, I would look for a student." She stopped, both in speech and motion. "But Master Yoda, I have been often in the field, especially of late, and I am unfamiliar with the current crop of initiates. As matters stand, I expect I will return to the Rim soon, and there will be little chance."

"Eight days from now, the Apprentice Tournament is," Yoda smirked wryly. "Will you not stay to see if there is one who impresses you?"

It was a cunning ploy, one that had completely slipped by Z'meer's sense of the Grand Master in the Force; a telling reminder in how much more she still had to learn. She was chagrined, but also glad. The Council had clearly planned this from the beginning, and she had no reason to refuse. "Of course Master Yoda, it would be my pleasure."

Z'meer stood atop the balcony of the dueling arena, one of several hundred Jedi in the stands observing. She had taken advantage of her freshly conferred Master's rank truly today, using it to secure a coveted front row seat with an excellent view. Other Masters had done the same, and it was a very prestigious group indeed that the newly promoted Jedi found herself among.

To her left was Master Tra's M'ins, a Jedi Consular well known for his diplomacy that Z'meer had met on several occasions but did not know particularly well. On her right, in a position all were fully aware was not coincidence, was the Kel Dor Master Plo Koon, of the High Council. Heroic and learned, Master Plo commanded great respect, and Z'meer was aware that he had been among those who advocated her new rank.

Not that she would speak of such things, of course.

Below, two Initiates, their heads wrapped with opaque hoods to render them blind, fought back and forth across the ring. A Human and Devaronian, both male, they were of only passing interest to Z'meer. Her insight had not directed her to look for boys; she was quite certain her first padawan would be a female.

So she stretched her gaze broader, instead. The other advanced initiates were gathered around the base of the ring, watching diligently. It was these that caught the master's gaze, as her focus circled the edge again and again. Only thirty-two participants had been chosen to compete today, those their instructors felt would best display their talents through a demonstration of combat ability. The matches were enlightening to watch, but had little utility for her search. Though Z'meer had experienced life or death battle many times in her life, and expected to many more, lightsaber combat was not her favored sphere, and she did not intend to take as a Padawan a would-be Jedi Guardian.

Yet the others she saw had not stood out as yet. They observed with care, and most displayed good focus, but only so much could be seen by watching a watcher.

"Something troubles you Master Bothu?" Plo Koon mused from her side, the elevated skeptical wisdom for which he was known strongly in evidence.

"They are too few," the words filled her with sadness. "And perhaps only half will become Jedi Knights some day. Has the Council considered a drive to increase recruitment?"

"It has, yes," Plo's own voice evidenced sadness.

"We have all been encouraged to search for potential recruits," Master M'ins interjected was unexpected, Z'meer had not even known he was listening. "But as the situation in the Rim has degraded, the Order's reputation has suffered, and families have become somewhat…hesitant, in offering children to our care."

"The Trade Federation has also become a difficulty," Plo Koon noted, a sentiment that Z'meer had experienced first hand in regard to many matters. "According to many of their agreements, immigration and emigration are heavily restricted, making it impossible for younglings to join us here."

This was news to Z'meer, and clearly to Master M'ins as well. "An outrage!" the older Jedi snapped.

"Yes, but one clearly within their legal rights," the Jedi had long been deferential to cultures that were unwilling to allow infants separation from their parents, or various other traditions. Z'meer knew that while sometimes an agreement could be reached, as it had with the Mirialans, all too often the Order simply ceased to be represented by those people. "The Council is working with the Senate to draft an exemption," Plo Koon continued. "But progress has been slow."

"I shall make a point to watch Trade Federation activities more closely," Z'meer announced quietly. "Master Fay was worried that some of their corporate allies had become overly aggressive as well."

This led to a somber silence among the three Masters.

Plo Koon would break it a moment later. "Ooh, now there was a well chosen counter." He remarked as the Devaronian upended his opponent after being pressed back, leading to a ground win.

"Ah, the enthusiasm of youth," Master M'ins chuckled, and the trio returned their attentions to the contest.

The battles ran long, as usual, for the instructors made a point to orchestrate the pairings among closely matched opponents, with the intent to allow each initiate to display his skills to the fullest. Z'meer watched the entire tournament, patiently and carefully, but saw no one she would chose as a Padawan. Indeed, she found the format rather lacking, these highly structured duels, one on one contests featuring only the limited lightsaber cadences known to the initiates, to be rather limiting.

The method was well suited to developing lightsaber skill, a matter that was traditionally important, but seemed to lack relevance now. Only a handful of Jedi in the whole Order had experienced a life-or-death battle with a lightsaber wielding opponent. Exposure to other forms of attack would be a better match for the modern day. Z'meer said nothing of this, however. Traditions were important, and history would seem to indicate that the Dark Side might slumber for a time, but would always re-emerge as a threat. Having every initiate learn the ways was a thorough method to sustain the skill base.

She simply wished it were a more illustrative one.

"You have had no luck as such, Master Bothu?" Plo Koon queried carefully when the matches were done.

"Not, yet, no," Z'meer answered timidly. "There are many skilled students, but I have not seen one that inspires me. I await the inspiration of the Force."

"The first Padawan is the most difficult choice," Master M'ins offered helpfully. "Experience is the best guide to one's teaching abilities, and without experience, I think you are right to be cautious."

"Your reports often speak of wild firefights alongside Sector Rangers," Plo Koon smiled beneath his breath mask. "Our final event may be more to your style."

"I do hope so," Z'meer agreed.

The event in question was considerably larger in scope than the arranged matches that preceded it, and required a change of venue. The observers walked ahead of the initiates from the limited spaces of the sparring arena to the much large central hall of the Temple Dojo, which had been cleared out earlier for this specific purpose. Z'meer took the time to chat with Master M'ins, who had a vast array of knowledge regarding Rim regions she was personally unfamiliar with. Though diplomacy had never been her particular focus, he knew much she found very useful.

The masters and knights assembled in a wide ring, hundreds strung out to form the boundary of the combat about to take place. At one end the temple instructors formed up, opening a gap through which each initiate would pass. These numbered over sixty, fully twice those chosen for individual battles. After passing through each youth, armed with nothing but a training lightsaber, was instructed to a specific spot on the floor by training remote.

The starting points, like the battle to come, were random, and some students would have many of their fellows close by, while others were in relative isolation.

"Our grand melee appears rather humble seeming, as usual," Plo Koon joked.

"Yes, and no," Z'meer countered. The Kel Dor Master was certainly correct in that a large group of younglings wearing plain robes standing about did not have the visual impact of, say, a Hutt gladiatorial arena, but the intensity of focus and feeling in the Force more than compensated.

The signal to start was similar, for it was not auditory, but came as a shout of energy in the Force from the lead instructor. Those initiates lacking sufficient attunement betrayed this in their stumble from the first step.

Then chaos enveloped the arena. Acting on varied impulses the students picked out opponents and charged, leading to a bevy of individual combats as small groups formed, dissolved, and were broken. It was not completely without governance, these were potential Jedi, not Sith, and betrayal was not countenanced, but affiliation could shift rapidly, and a victory of two against one might immediately resolve into the same facing each other.

Eyes could not follow it all, this shifting action that moved at something resembling the pace of true combat, and Z'meer did not initially try, instead reaching out with her feelings, searching for something that felt right.

Her eyes focused far to her left, on a young woman there. Black-red haired, and with yellowed skin, she was locked saber-to-saber with an avian Mrlssi. The girl was not large, but she was significantly taller than her feathered foe, and sought to beat down his defense with a series of heavy, powerful two-hand blows. "Hmm…" there was something familiar about the presence of the girl in the Force, and Z'meer found the choice of assault intriguing. "A focused attack relying on strength, not her trained approach, but designed to exploit the weakness of her enemy."

"Caught your interest, has she?" As expected, Plo Koon's gaze had followed that of the new Master. He was observing her, after all.

"Possibly," Z'meer was careful with her words. "She seems oddly familiar."

"She should," Master Plo noted wryly. "You are the one who brought her to the temple."

That was a memory burned into the Jedi's brain. "Shakvail," she whispered.

As they spoke the initiate Shakvial opposed lost the contest of the lock and attempted to step back for breathing space. The training saber darted inside his guard instead, and he yelped in pain as a nasty burn blossomed on his feathers. He fell to the ground at this wound, knowing the match had ended.

His red and black haired foe turned away from this triumph, knowing other challenges approached. One came immediately, as a pair of initiates, male and female humans, closed in rapidly. Z'meer watched as Shakvail considered escape with a single glance, but seeing no open avenue, advanced to meet the attack head on.

Training lightsabers crossed in combat in a quick exchange before the fighters broke, circling about to make another attack. Even through the brief blow-and-counterblow dance, Z'meer saw that the pair over-matched the familiar face. Shakvail's bladework was perfectly serviceable, given her stage of training, but the other two were highly skilled; both had fought in individual matches earlier.

Shakvail appeared to know this as well, and her next series of moves attempted to split the two and dart away. This failed, and she was struck a glancing blow to the shoulder, leaving her robe smoldering and her position desperate.

"A worthy attempt," Z'meer noted, feeling a slight disappointment. "But not quick enough it seems."

"You think it over so soon?" Plo Koon asked skeptically.

"Surely it must be," Master M'ins supplied. Z'meer agreed, but felt it unnecessary to say anything.

Shakvail paused, and she raised her blade directly in front of her, so the slender brilliance of the energy rested between those eerie teardrop eyes.

Then she attacked.

"Something has shifted," Z'meer spoke with an indrawn breath, and she focused her senses on the young initiate.

Sabers crossed, as the boy, a tall youth, met the blow first.

Shakvail threw her body forward, and her left foot lanced out to stomp down on her opponent's. Caught suddenly off-balance, the boy wrenched back, wide-open, and Shakvail's training saber speared him in the gut hilt-first. He crumpled with a moan.

The girl snapped in with a sweeping blow to avenge her ally, but Shakvail pushed forward, blocking close in and charging. Though the human initiate was too quick to be overwhelmed, but was suddenly facing a series of sharp, irregular jabs aimed at her hands. It was not a proper set of Jedi moves, and was a truly random and non-standard attack, but the girl's eyes went wide, and she let loose a wild defensive flurry in a state of near-panic.

Shakvail's training saber clipped her across both knees.

"What's this?" Master M'ins gave voice to a question Z'meer most thoroughly shared.

"Breaker trance," Plo Koon supplied. "According to Master Windu, it is something like the ability to sense shatterpoints, though it is an innate trait, not a skill of the Force."

"And not without a downside," Z'meer noticed immediately. Shakvail moved instantly from her swift victory to charge another opponent, a Gran. She attacked oddly once again, launching a spinning slide the came in behind the stalk-eyed alien, cutting low in a blind spot, allowing her to pierce the defense raised.

The Gran was defeated, but Shakvail was on the ground, and an opportunistic initiate leapt at her, beating down her guard with a rapid attack, and then finishing the fight with a sweep to the left side.

Though the rules of the contest were clear, Z'meer watched the initiate try to get up again afterwards, her whole body shaking and her presence in the Force wavering strangely. Twin impulses, deeply opposed, warred there, and her energy drained rapidly as it fought itself. After a moment the issue was decided by default, as Shakvail no longer had the strength to fight left.

"A dangerous talent," Z'meer commented softly. "She tries to control it with the Force, but cannot do so fully. Am I correct in assuming it is a species trait?"

"Yes," Plo Koon's reply was swift. "The archives indicate the Safol possessed this strange warrior's trance naturally. Though its affects are unusual, such states are not unprecedented."

That was true enough, Z'meer knew. Many species in the galaxy had states of being where hormonal factors overrode reason; Wookiees, Gamorreans, and others. Such states normally increased physical capabilities, but an increase of perception, even through the Force, was surely not impossible.

"I would like to meet with her, Master Plo," Z'meer said, drawing a pleased expression from the Kel Dor.

Shakvail's side ached. She meditated, sitting calmly in one of the Temple's innumerable alcoves, and the pain was minimal, but it still ached.

The wound was an open rebuke to her, to her limits, to the choice to unleash her breaker trance at all. So she meditated, wondering if that had been the right decision or not. Was it right? Part of her said no. The tournament was intended to show off abilities of initiates, of skill and knowledge and control of the Force, not natural power. The ability resting within her veins and nerves was no Jedi technique.

But it was a part of her.

The breaker trance was her Safol heritage, and it was the only thing, apart from the largely cosmetic aspects of her appearance, to truly separate her from humans. To not use it would be to deny her flesh, her origins, and that was not required, or even wise. Jedi with great strength or size fought with lightclubs that better fit their hands, Jedi with multiple arms carried multiple sabers, and Jedi with hormonal power that supercharged flesh and bone were encouraged to develop the skill. Was she different?

Other Jedi had peers, precedent, to call upon. It was never mentioned openly, but Shakvail was fully aware that she was the only Safol in the Order; worse, the only Safol in the galaxy, as far as anyone was aware. She was unique, her circumstance was unique, and her breaker trance was unique.

The Jedi Order was not very fond of unique.

There were a number of very good reasons for that, all beginning with the incredible power Jedi must be trusted to handle with superb judgment and the greatest care. An unproven, unknown factor required greater scrutiny. Shakvail knew all of this, had paid considerable attention to the detailed and careful explanations offered by Jedi as notable as the Master of the Order Mace Windu himself. She knew, and she accepted, for she wanted more than anything to be a good Jedi.

She was also a twelve year old girl, and could never shake the feeling that this was somehow unbelievably unfair.

"Shakvail!" one of the fosterers called from down the hall. "You have a visitor."

The Safol perked up, and she stood hurriedly, the pain in her side suddenly forgotten. She hoped terribly hard that it was some knight or master come to see her, come to make her a padawan. It had to happen, it must! She had to have impressed someone at the tournament, none of the Temple's regular Jedi had expressed any interest, and she was running out of time. If the tournament hadn't worked, she was staring at a future in the AgriCorps.

She'd passed the Trials, so that would be utterly unfair.

Then she heard the footsteps in the hall. They were soft, easy, and with a lightly measured cadence not rushed at all.

Shakvail held her body tight, trying to look her best, and wishing she was taller, more mature.

Then the Jedi appeared and she forgot all about it, shifting to studying this visitor with avid intensity.

She was a human woman, not young but not yet middle aged, in white and tan robes. Her outfit was unassuming, but her face was mysterious. Smooth and flat with gentle lines, it was oddly ornamented. There was a broad, bow-shaped ribbon mark in the center of her face, magenta shaded with the circle above the eyes and the tails extending down across her nose and out to the cheeks. Her lower lip had a small bar of the same color in the center. She wore large, ball-shaped earrings of the same shade. Her brown hair was ordinary enough, but it was pulled back into odd, winged pigtails, seeming to Shakvail as if a small bird had landed on the back of her head. The initiate had never seen a human Jedi so adorned, it was strange.

Somehow, this woman was oddly familiar, but Shakvail could not summon any image from memory.

"So, you are Shakvail," the voice was strong, stern, and focused, not what the initiate had expected from the woman's gentle outer appearance.

"I am."

"I am Master Z'meer Bothu," the Jedi announced.

That was a name Shakvail knew, both from a recent announcement, and from an older, more precious recollection that now bubbled to the surface. "I know you!" she burst, and then clamped a hand over her mouth, blushing in embarrassment.

Z'meer smiled lightly. "I think we can pardon your outburst, this time," She was gentle, but stern in that moment, every inch the Jedi Master. "And you are correct, but tell me, how is it that we know each other?"

Shakvail's stomach flipped at that question, and her body trembled. Long had she thought, wondered, fixated on that incident, and she had often thought of the Jedi whose name was mentioned atop the official report. What would she say? "You…you were the one who brought me to the Temple as a child." She managed.

"A safe answer," Z'meer nodded slightly, her dark eyes boring down on Shakvail.

The initiate could not hold up to that gaze, and her eyes darted wide, shifting to the apexes of her droplet orbs, staring far apart with the peripheral tunnel vision this provided, snapping the image asunder.

"But not a complete one," the Jedi continued. "Tell me Shakvail, the truth, all of it. Do you resent me? Hate me? Fear me? I see you have studied hard, and that your origins hold a great fascination for you, so you have surely formed an opinion. What is it?"

"You…saved me," Shakvail managed, still looking away without turning her head. That was true, it was! But it was not all of it. "And…you…you orphaned me."

"Ah," that was all, a single syllable nothing more, and the strange reply wrenched the initiate's attention back to the Jedi. She turned to see the beginning of tears in her eyes.

Z'meer's hand descended to her shoulder, the right one, the uninjured side, and by gesture brought her to sit. The Jedi followed gracefully.

Shakvail sat, looking at this woman, and wondering, truly confused.

Z'meer was silent for a time, leaving the initiate to tremble nervously, all her hopes and dreams and fears warring in her. Why was this woman here, now? She'd never come before, not once. Shakvail knew that absolutely, she'd asked the fosterers many times.

"Saved you and orphaned you," Z'meer spoke at last, her sternness absent. "How succinct and accurate, you may have a way with words young one." She looked straight at Shakvail, measuring her up and down. "But in a way, all Jedi are orphans. We leave our families behind before we are old enough to form memories. The Order is our family. I wanted you to have that family."

It was hard to be rational, to be fair, when talking about this. Shakvail could barely control her emotions, had to draw on the Force, to take al the strength she could there, even more than in battle, to hold together. "That's one kind of family," she could not keep from snapping. "But there's another, and that's one the Jedi can't replace."

"All species are equal among the Jedi, all origins," Z'meer responded. "Your situation is unusual, surely, but in the Force, we can feel our similarities, can transcend the barriers of species. I cannot think of you as orphaned that way."

"You're human, there's quadrillions of you in the galaxy, how could you understand?"

"My master was not human, but I remain closer to her than any other," Z'meer's sternness, a governess for a petulant child, returned. "We are all Jedi first, is that not enough?"

Shakvail had heard this before, too many times, and it wasn't easy to handle, not when she wanted to be a Jedi, wanted it so bad it made her shake. It was the only viable path, but this one thing she could not accept. "Jedi first not Jedi only!" she shouted, unable to hold back, not facing Z'meer, not with all those memories, all that loss, directly in front of her. "I'm cut off, the only one! By myself, and there's nothing to fill it. Be a Jedi, they say, don't worry about being Safol, they say, it's not important, the Force transcends your roots."

"Doesn't it?"

The Breaker Trance brought a sense of weakness, and words too could be a form of battle. The Force spoke into her body then, and gave her a weapon she had not expected. As she was, she could not hold back from using it. She screamed. "Then why do you have those marks on your face?"

Z'meer's mouth opened wide, stopped, and then silently closed. The Jedi master drew in an audible breath. "These marks indicate my survival, free of plague, to adulthood. They are from Turial, my homeworld." She took another breath. "It seems there is something to your point, Shakvail."

It was as if the sky had opened up before her, that admission, small and limited though it was, validated so many years of longing and searching.

The Jedi was far from finished, however. "Accepting that it is a terrible tragedy to lose one's origins, what exactly do you intend to do about it?" She paused, amending the remark. "I have never forgotten that day; it was a failure I will never leave behind entirely. I searched had to find everything I could on those pirates, and all the places they had plundered. A crack team of analysts from the Sector Rangers was also involved, but there were no successes."

"I know," Shakvail had read everything the archives contained on the incident at least three times, but had found no clues as to where she was truly from, where any Safol might survive in the galaxy. "I accept that, but I'm going to keep looking, even when I become a Jedi Knight, I won't ever stop. I have to; I feel it in the Force."

At this Z'meer said nothing.

"I've studied, read in the archives, all about Safols, and near-humans, and the New Sith Wars, and colonial history in the Republic, anything I could find. I'm meant to find the answer to my own species, to our extinction, I know it." Shakvail had felt certain of that since moments after she truly felt the Force for the first time. It had held steady throughout her young life. There was nothing she knew better in the universe. "And to do that I have to become a Jedi."

"Jedi serve the Force, the galaxy, and its people," Z'meer spoke carefully, and Shakvail could sense the import of her words. "Perhaps seeking the answer to this question will do that, and perhaps not. Perhaps you will find yourself called to other duties, and never find the time to seek out this answer. Are you prepared?"

It was not the question the initiate expected. She had not truthfully expected a question at all, but instead a dismissal of her attachment to her origins. "I am." She spoke firmly, and declined to say anything more. Let the words stand as her commitment itself.

The Jedi Master looked at her for a long time, and now Shakvail stared back, unflinching. She was ready, she knew it. This was her calling, and this woman, who had pulled her from a cargo container ten years ago, had to know that better than anyone.

"Yes, you are," Z'meer said at last, rising to her feet. "Stand, padawan."

Shakvail practically jumped into the air.

**Notes**

No formal ceremony for becoming a Jedi Master actually exists in canon, so I have invented one that seems reasonable. No doubt it would not apply in all circumstances, but this sort of dramatic deliberation seems appropriate for peace time. I have chosen the date for Z'meer's promotion arbitrarily, but she was referenced as a Jedi Master during the Clone Wars.

Like most one-off canon characters, Z'meer does not have an official age. Her comic appearance is not clear on this front, especially given the Jedi ability to prolong lifespans. I have chosen to have her born in 69 BBY, making her three years younger than Mace Windu and thirty-two during this story.

Master Tra's M'ins, like the other Jedi Masters in this piece, is a canon character, a diplomat who was a contemporary of Jorus C'baoth.

The Apprentice Tournament is a canon event, and has been described in some detail in other sources regarding a Clone Wars iteration. I have tried to present an accurate rendition that fits existing material.

Z'meer's facial marks are presented in her comic appearance. As no explanation is attached to them, I have provided my own.


	3. Padawan

**Shakvail: Padawan**

**Diado**

**Lifh Sector**

**Mid Rim**

**26 BBY**

The tracks led north over the snowpack, rising up the ridge to a distant point in high above, where the rising sun was just now edging over the mountains. The light reflected off that pure white-blue escarpment was brilliant and blinding. Absent protective goggles it would have been almost impossible to see anything.

Modern technology was capable of many minor miracles, however, and inside the swathing of her cold-weather survival gear Shakvail felt perfectly fine. Pausing briefly to mark this track sighting on her datapad, she stashed the unit in the outer pocket of her parka a moment later before striding forward across the snow. As she moved to follow the track line upwards she waved back, indicating the sign.

A terse nod of acknowledgment came from a similarly en-wrapped figure a few dozen meters down the slope. Chuckling silently, Shakvail checked her straps and began to climb the ice-covered mountainside. That her otherwise serene and unflappable master hated the cold was a continual source of amusement. Doubly so give that, with Z'meer's impressive control of the Force she could have walked about naked and never felt the slightest chill. Though her padawan had nowhere near that level of mastery, Shakvail was somehow far more comfortable in these surroundings.

"I don't like snow," Z'meer had said the first night time they traveled to a frozen landscape. She had never elaborated otherwise, not once, and her student had long since stopped asking. She had never ceased to find it hilarious despite that, and embraced such polar assignments with greater gusto because of it.

There was little time to waste on such thoughts this morning. Shakvail swiftly returned her focus to the difficult task of tracking delicate paw-prints in the snow crust while she processed the dangerous approach. This was wild territory, and signs of habitation were few and far between. They had left the nearest settlement behind two days past, and now traveled lands abandoned to the creatures of this mountain tundra. Nothing but survey posts, transmission towers, and the occasional herder's hut marked the mostly barren landscape.

Vast cushion plants, some taller than two meters, mounded the landscape, growing on any level space between the washes of gravel and ice among the stones. Limpid wildflowers grew from tiny cracks, and strange fungal epiphytes hung loose from the ice itself. Tiny scaled creatures scurried among the stony ground, gathering bits and pieces to survive, though the air was empty, nothing on this planet having evolved flying locomotion.

Most cushion plants bore the signs of grazing, massive heaping bites taken by the local mountain nerf. A small herd could be seen grazing in the distance to the west, several kilometers from the ridge. They were the first Shakvail had seen this trek, and she suspected they must be wild. The herders had all deserted this area of late.

The sun rose, and the Jedi struggled up the slope, fighting to keep purchase on icy surfaces and scrambling over rugged sections. It was a challenging approach, but Shakvail remained confident they were proceeding in the right direction. The pawprints only grew in number, and they were joined by clawmarks on some of the stones, and eventually gnawed nerf bones could be found in drop middens. The last was an unnatural phenomenon; ice cats were territorial creatures, and did not work together in packs at any time.

Beyond this mundane evidence, there was the Force, a beacon that led them higher, further, drawing their eyes to a dark blot somewhere high in these mountains. It would have been enough by itself, but Shakvail was glad to have the physical evidence, the confirmation of the stories that led them here. It was an impulse her master might well rebuke, but she'd never found the Force to be all that good at solving puzzles all by itself. She rather wished it was, things would be a lot easier that way, but she'd never been much for relying on wishes.

They paused to rest at midday; high on a saddle where a great swath of tracks converged in the snow. Z'meer bent down to look at the great paw prints as she chewed a ration bar. "How many do you count?" she asked her padawan.

"Twelve, fourteen, or fifteen," Shakvail answered quickly, having been prepared for this question. "It depends on how many are same-size individuals repeating paths."

"Fourteen," Z'meer answered emphatically. "Look closer; see the flavors of residue in the Force, the indicators that go beyond the mundane."

Though she doubted a second look would improve her results, Shakvail looked again, hoping to find the streams of essence her master always talked of seeing everywhere. It was not easy. Her eyes tracked patterns of prints back and forth, seeing and measuring the impressions in so many ways. She built a mental image of each, letting the Force wrap around them, comparing one to another to find those identical pairings that resonated in her mind. One, then two, then five, eight, nine, eleven, and then… Then she stopped, unable to differentiate further.

"I can only see eleven, master," she admitted to failure, as expected, though it still hurt.

"Three mated pairs," Z'meer corrected, no rebuke in her voice, but one was not necessary, everything shown in her feelings. "These ice cats must mate only with one of the same size as their own, and it seems they…smell…the same. You focused too much on the physical, and missed this difference."

"Yes master," Z'meer's explanation matched that of the research Shakvail had done for this assignment, and in light of that explanation her mind opened and she could see the fourteen different trails perfectly. It was obvious, and she cursed the blunder.

"Focus not so much on-"

"Details, or you will miss the full picture," Shakvail completed the common refrain. She had heard it time and again. She caught Z'meer smiling at her interjection, and turned away, blushing with sudden embarrassment.

Her master's face grew serious a moment later. "I have told you that many times, but it seems a hurdle you cannot clear. You must focus on it deeply; should you master that truth, you would be a Jedi Knight."

Shakvail was very glad her mouth was masked at that moment; it prevented her jaw from dropping off in shock. "Yes, master," she managed to mumble a moment later. Her focus blurred and she struggled to internalize the import of those words. It was a clear admission of proximity. She was almost there. Her heart raced at the thought.

The reasoning portion of her brain splashed cold water over her hopes a moment later, as she recalled that Z'meer had first spoken those exact same words to her within hours of taking her as a padawan. The admonitions and exhortations upon the topic were legion now, so much so that Shakvail did not need a reminder; she could supply several dozen of her own.

Z'meer finished the ration bar a moment later and shouldered her pack again. "Fourteen is a dangerous number," she noted. "And this is a dangerous place. We must press ahead, to confront whatever this menace is before night falls."

"Yes," Shakvail agreed completely.

They trudged onward. Each step was hard-won across that frozen expanse, high in thinning air. Progress was slow, but steady, and Shakvail had measured the distance carefully in setting the pace. They could make it all the way to the summit by nightfall, and surely the hideaway must be closer.

There was little discussion as they climbed; both women moved in general silence. The only speech was the occasional warning call or terse directions; they said nothing more than the essentials. Shakvail, having little to think on during the climb, noticed this, and gave a soft chuckle. She knew she'd acquired her master's tendency toward silence, a trait that was practically legendary among the Jedi. The padawan was content with that habit, for it allowed her considerable freedom to explore her own thoughts and interests.

So it was that neither Jedi voiced the obvious pattern in the tracks, more abundant with each crest and saddle. ice cats did not group in this fashion, nor did they leave such regularly obvious sign on heavy crust. The trail before them was deliberate, a lure, and the whole pack was waiting above. Waiting with whatever it was that controlled them.

Surprise was surely lost, a deficiency the padawan felt unfortunate. Their overland trek had begun in the hopes of catching their quarry unsuspecting, daring the snows on foot rather than waiting for speeders flown in from the south. The raids had already crippled all the local vehicles.

Shakvail had keen sight, Jedi enhancement to her senses, and eyes that offered greater peripheral vision than any human. She was confident they had not been physically observed by any sentient agency. No ice cat had sighted them either; the reptomammals were extremely dangerous, but showed up readily on any bioscan.

Ergo, the enemy above was using the Force to anticipate their arrival, which the vague cold presence resting ever just a little above the limits of sight strongly supported. The only real remaining question was: ambush or trap?

That would be dealt with when it occurred, even as the duo moved swiftly across any truly vulnerable points. These were few, for the ridge was narrow, and difficult to traverse. ice cats were large animals, and it would require a considerable expanse for them to swarm effectively. Shakvail, examining the terrain, was certain such an arena did not exist naturally. Satellite scans suggested nothing, so the inevitable answer was a facility inside the mountain itself.

To her considerable disappointment, Z'meer found it first.

"There," the Jedi Master paused in her trek, and motioned for Shakvail to follow her arm.

It was difficult to see, tucked into the side of the cliff-face on the eastern edge of the ridge, and now deeply in shadow as the sun moved to the west. It was a square hole in the side of the mountain, one free hanging, isolated from any obvious access. A small shelf, composed of the readily recognizable gray of duracrate, extended outward a few meters, no doubt a platform for aircraft approaches.

"They are coming in through that crack," Shakvail noted, pointing out a jagged break in the stones to the far side of the entrance. "Looks like someone just hacked into the rock with a plasma torch."

"Yes," Z'meer agreed quietly.

Examining the cut further, Shakvail thought it more or less impassable for a human. Though it was only a distance of twenty meters or so from the crest of the ridge, even a skilled climber would not be able to free-climb the distance. Aid climbing would work, but it would be astonishingly vulnerable.

ice cats, of course, could make such an assent with limited difficultly.

"How would you defend that position?" Z'meer asked her padawan.

"I'd mine the platform," Shakvail answered immediately. "Then I'd have shooters in ambush just inside."

"Mines could be troublesome," the Jedi Master tsked.

There was no need to mention shooters, because there would be none. With a visual guide to enhance their focus, both Jedi could look out into the Force and sense what awaited them. A single dark presence accompanied a great swarm of sharp predatory feeling. Shakvail closed her eyes to seek further, searching for the electromagnetic signatures that presaged functional droids, but found nothing.

"We will have to land without landing then," Z'meer determined.

"Mines could be detonated by remote, other traps if a different method is used," Shakvail offered cautiously.

"We must be swift then."

The padawan nodded, wishing she had her master's confidence.

Then they ran.

It took only seconds for the Jedi, at full speed, to bound over the ice so they stood above the duracrete platform.

In the next moment they dropped.

Shakvail fell close to the rock face, wrapping the Force around her and strengthening muscles, tendons and bones. At the final moment, aided by the Force's flow through her senses to match her movement and effectively slow her perception of time, she slammed her climbing pick into the stone. A jarring break followed as she clung to the impaled spike and flipped about in midair before vaulting into the darkened chamber beyond, arms aching.

Z'meer dropped freely in space, taking the twenty meter fall as nothing. The Jedi Master did not land, but instead stopped softly half a meter above the snow-covered duracrete, standing on air. With a careful, almost casual, flap of her arms she brushed into the clouds and flowed forward to rendezvous with her padawan.

Seeing it all happen in her mind's eye, Shakvail promised herself that one day, she too would manage such feats.

To the padawan's surprise, no attack came to interrupt her thoughts.

"Odd," she muttered, confused. The Jedi stood in twin fighting crouches in the center of a worked passage, a squared expanse roughly five meters to a side. It was not a finished space, showing clear signs of blasting to carve the way and only plastered over with a thin film of bonding paving.

"It seems our foe has decided to press the confrontation further in," Z'meer was outwardly calm, but Shakvail could sense her master's nerves in the Force. She was holding the tension she always displayed before battle tightly wound.

"This was something like a hangar, once," Shakvail noted, pointing to power hookups and fuel line ports along the walls. No doubt there were tanks buried below them. The space was not large, but it would be sufficient to shelter two, or perhaps four, modest airspeeders, and protect them from winter storms.

"A considerable time has passed since," Z'meer added, eyes traversing the ceiling. "This is an old place, and a dark one. We must be cautious."

Considering these words, Shakvail paused to take a closer look at the couplings. "This tech is pre-Ruusan, but I don't recognize it otherwise. It's not Republic standard, probably a Hutt design."

Z'meer put a hand to the floor, her eyes closed, and her head slowly moving back and forth. "This place has old scars," she whispered. "Once a refuge, it was lost, but now claimed by a recent interloper."

"And a band of controlled ice cats," Shakvail added practically. That was the really dangerous part. "Sith?" she asked, not afraid, but filled with worry that they might be outmatched.

"No."

That single word, spoken with confidence and assurance, was deeply comforting to the padawan. There were some things she had no wish to face, especially not on their own ground.

"But there is a dangerous darkness here," her master continued. "One not fully vanquished long ago. We must be cautious." With these words Z'meer reached to her belt and pulled her lightsaber free of its clip, holding it openly.

Shakvail, knowing her master almost never carried her weapon until blows were struck, quickly grasped her own, though neither yet ignited the energy blades.

The hallway was dim, but neither Jedi reached for a glowrod. Emergency lighting, green and wan, had sputtered to life when they entered. It left the passage cloaked in grim shadows, but there was more than enough light to see.

Distant during their approach, the predatory presence was almost sweltering now. Shakvail could she her, for it was a female entity for certain, clearly, hungry and waiting. It rested amid a concentration of life, powerful and eager; no doubt the controlled ice cats.

"There's only one passage," the padawan took a brief reading with her scanner after it became certain no attack would be forthcoming. "It proceeds to the left and upwards into the mountain."

"It seems she is content to wait for us," Z'meer's voice was cold. "Well, let us not prolong this."

Shakvail nodded, and moved to take point, as she often did. There was no question of what they were up against. The ice cats had been responsible for a reign of terror in past weeks that claimed over three score lives and had utterly ruined the local pastoralist economy. Bloody messages on the dead had demanded tribute; the people had requested Jedi instead.

They marched through the passageway carefully, constantly on guard for the trap that was designed to defeat them. This stronghold was not highly refined, empty halls paved with bonding and little rooms to the side, mostly empty. They grew more complete over time; building had apparently proceeded from the deepest sections first. Nothing could be gleaned from what remained, to Shakvail's disappointment, the ice cats had been allowed to roam freely, and now the alcoves were filed with dead nerf parts, scratching marks, piles of debris, and a considerable quantity of shed fur.

The padawan could glean only one thing about the mysterious builders. They had been skilled engineers; this place was designed with high efficiency and a strict minimalism. It was strong, and built to last, with ideally placed couplings, connections, and cables. If it had finished, it could have been quite the fortress. She wondered who had constructed it, and considered asking Z'meer, but she could sense her master's curiosity in the Force, and realized she did not know either.

At last they reached a single fork in the passage. To the right was an empty tunnel filled with the hulking forms of failing machinery, humming dimly in their slow dying of many centuries. To the left their enemy waited around a final bend.

Still silent, Z'meer moved to even with Shakvail, and they advanced.

Seven steps past that turn, Shakvail felt a tremor in the Force.

Seized by the immediate intuition that comes to all Jedi she jumped, exerting her strength and focus to carry her body back the way she had come, half a step behind her master, engaged in the same action.

They were too late. A great slab of stone, dropped from a concealed double-ceiling above, crashed down on a dead drop to wall up the way the only egress.

As it hit, the stone unleashed a great wave of electrical charge, setting the air to blue and sparking. This plasmatic discharge passed over the Jedi, tingling and twisting, but producing nothing more than a mild sensation on the skin.

Deeply concerned, Shakvail immediately moved to check her various electronics against this surge. Most were unharmed, but one highly significant piece had been unexpectedly crippled.

Her lightsaber.

"Stang!" Shakvail almost never swore, but she could not contain herself in that moment.

"Hold, padawan," Z'meer cautioned, and the Jedi Master turned from the blocking slab to face the other way, where their enemy awaited.

An enemy who was now laughing.

Three more steps carried the Jedi around the final corner, opening on a wide, empty room with a single central dais emerging from the floor. It appeared to be a grand stone sarcophagus, sealed and molded in duracrete.

The laughter came from the woman atop it. She was roughly human, but hairless with pale gray skin, and sharp charcoal-shaded tattoos on her face and arms. She wore red wrappings of animal hide, died bloody, and the cold did not touch her. All around her appropriated throne the ice cats strode and bayed, ready to strike. They were terrible to behold, massive creatures with feline faces and toothy maws on splayed reptilian legs with long and deadly claws. Blue fur matted with died blood and bits of pale flesh covered them. Their eyes showed yellow with the corruption of the dark side, as did those of their mistress.

"Nightsister," Shakvail whispered, having heard of these beings. She felt a tremor of fear, and stubbornly kept pressing the activation button of her lightsaber, hoping to coax life from the somehow crippled weapon.

"Your name?" Z'meer asked, unperturbed. The Jedi Master was an oasis of calm, a most impressive feat, and one Shakvail could not share. They were surrounded by enemies with no way out and, most importantly, no weapons. The woman on the rise did not appear especially strong in the Force, and she lacked the focused potential of even a modestly trained padawan, but fifteen to two odds were bad in all circumstances. Dread crept up the back of the padawan's neck, and she began to wonder if she was starring at death for the first time in her recent memory.

"I am your death," the nightsister retorted, all pride and fury. "That is all you need to know."

"Is that so?" Z'meer's unshakable composure was a thing to behold, and Shakvail took solace in it. Her master felt no fear, so she must not either. She struggled to banish her misgivings and stare at the battle readily, looking not for death, but for victory, which must be possible, somehow. "I suppose that means you will refuse my offer to surrender then, will it not?"

"Surrender?" the nightsister scoffed. "Are you blind Jedi? You're trapped, and your precious lightsabers are useless to you." She pulled a long, serrated sword from behind the granite coffin she adorned. "Look around you, this room is pure and free of debris."

Shakvail's eyes quickly canvassed the room, and indeed this proclamation was true.

"There is nothing for you to throw or launch with the Force, no weapons, and only my precious pets, oh so hungry for blood," the nightsister laughed. "But maybe I will be generous. Maybe you can surrender to me. I promise to let you live, even keep all your parts, as much as my lovelies hunger for a taste. Then your Republic can ransom you, hmm…"

"If you will not surrender, then we are obligated to take you by force," Z'meer's voice remained calm, if anything it was somewhat disappointed. "I cannot guarantee your survival."

"Insolent wretch!" the nightsister leapt down from her perch, sword in hand.

Shakvail, acting on instinct alone, jumped in front of her master.

The jagged blade clanged against the shaft of the padawan's climbing pick, chipping the polycarbonate fiber and pressing down hard.

"Oh? Eager to defend your master?" the nightsister's breath stank, vile and filled with the odor of raw flesh. Her eyes were ragged and bloodshot, and her skin puckered with black lines. "Maybe I'll kill you while she watches!"

It took all of Shakvail's strength, and everything she could draw upon from the Force, to hold that blade away from her flesh. She abandoned herself to that effort, hoping desperately that her master had a plan. Fourteen ice cats circled, awaiting a single command to pounce.

Z'meer Bothu, with a move as casual as if she was standing in front of a mirror in her temple quarters, reached both hands up and snapped off her earrings. The Force surged in her.

The nightsister lurched back, confused.

Z'meer put both hands forward, palms up. The magenta spheres rose several centimeters and began to spin in a tight circle, taking on incredible velocity.

"Kill her my pets!" the nightsister shouted.

An ice cat lunged; mouth wide, barring fangs the length of a man's hand.

The pinkish orb in Z'meer's left hand shot free.

At speed that could be followed only with the aid of the Force, Shakvail watched as that little object, which she suddenly discovered weighed close to a full kilogram, struck the great predator full in the forehead with an ear-splitting crack.

Then it kept going.

Flesh yielded, crumpled, and tore, and the spherical bullet passed through surface skin, skullbone, braincase, spinal column, and back out the dorsal spines, powered by the Force to gain speed rather than loose it.

With a great ringing noise it struck the far wall, reversed direction, and returned to Z'meer, who extended her left hand up to catch it floating a handspan from her skin and set it spinning again.

"Kill! Kill! Kill!" the nightsister screamed in rage.

"Padawan, if you could occupy our irate quarry," Z'meer's voice, filled with iron-clad control, mentioned almost idly.

Then the chamber exploded into chaos.

Thirteen feline reptilian bodies lunged in a storm of predation made real, seeking the life on one small human woman. The Jedi Master moved to counter them, wielding her twin spheres as lethal missiles, spinning in a fluid three dimensional dance that saw her bounce, jump, and whip her hands about with the speed and skill of a professional shockball champion. Those deadly orbs struck flesh bone, and stone, always bouncing and careening onward, their paths a vector web of terrible potency. Z'meer slid within that pattern, casting her bullets from foe to foe, slipping away from deadly teeth and claws, her flesh always one millimeter too far for natural blades to reach blood.

Shakvail would have loved to watch this display, the mastery of the Force unveiled, but even as her master fought for their lives, she was engaged in a desperate struggle for her own.

"I'll rip you apart!" the nightsister brought back her sword and pressed the assault, unleashing great sweeping blows with tremendous strength.

Shakvail countered with her tool, the only weapon available to her with her lightsaber useless. She scampered backwards, dodging predators and trying to remain beyond the edge of that terrible blade.

The nightsister, all strength and no finesse, beat upon her guard with terrible potency.

The stakes could not be higher, the feeling smashed down on the padawan in time with the sword strokes. Shakvail had to hold out.

Both fighters knew it.

A massive overhand blow forced the padawan to dash to the side, even as the escape pressed her closer to the corner.

A sense of inevitability settled over the Safol, as that blade bit into her little implement, breaking off the pick, and then hacking a sizable chunk out of the increasingly ragged shaft. She could not maintain this deadly dance, and soon that blade would find her life. That would mean her master's end as well, for Z'meer's dance was a delicate, vulnerable thing, and a single shove in the Force from this monster would disrupt it and doom them both.

The padawan needed a way around her foe's guard, a means to riposte these brutal attacks that sent shockwaves of pain and tremors of weakness through her limbs. Her awareness crept up to desperation, and she knew she could will it to break through, to find a weakness, but what good would hitting her enemy with a blunted stick accomplish? Would this fallen creature, so empowered by the dark side it fouled the very air around her, even feel that?

Focus not so much on details.

In that desperate moment, as the serrated edge scrapped against her hand and left Shakvail feeling blood beneath her gloves, almost dropping her weapon and ending it there, the padawan finally understood.

Not a weakness in her guard; a weakness in this whole scenario.

A path to victory.

Shakvail let her body have its way.

Chemicals poured into her bloodstream, neurons supercharged and ions poured down the pathways of her brain, overriding stops, blockages, reasoning power, imposing a connection between her lower, reptilian, animal awareness and her decision making process no human possessed. Barriers between consideration and action vanished, hesitation crumpled, and the irrational became the inevitable. Probability gave way to an overriding command to find the one path, the essential possibility that led to survival.

Shakvail jumped; the full strength of the Force behind her.

It was madness, and her opponent made her pay with a brutal crossing cut that landed below both knees, ripping through padded gear and soft tissue to slash muscle and expose bone.

The padawan did not even feel the pain.

She spun in midair, flipping as she turned, on a singular path to a specific, chosen landing point.

Her enemy turned and made her own flying leap in response, blade out, ready to skewer her as she came down.

The Force channeled through Shakvail's body, striking down through her legs, amplified so that it hit with all her power when she landed. Her boots impacted on the top of the stone sarcophagus, poured duracrete in a single form, ten centimeters thick.

It shattered into countless tiny shards. Shakvail fell half a meter further, onto a pair of bodies that lay entwined within.

The nightsister's momentum carried her into this collapse, and she stumbled coming down on millennia-old bones that crumpled at her touch. She had to jerk back and throw out a hand for balance before she could thrust.

The pair of foes stood as two had centuries ago, locked in combat in this room; the dark side attuned lord who had built this refuge, and the Jedi Knight who had braved it to destroy him. Their bones were now cracked and brittle, and broke apart at this intrusion, clothes dissipating in the same moment.

One object remained, and Shakvail called it to her hand.

A smooth, refined metal cylinder, with a fine grip and jade inlay, it gave a satisfying snap-hiss as the padawan's finger descended to the activation stud.

A transparent green blade burst to life, sending new brightness across the shadow-filled chamber.

The nightsister's eyes widened, but she thrust her sword in anyway.

Shakvail brought her borrowed lightsaber across and sliced the weapon in half.

She did not pause, but her motion continued, and a crossing motion brought her gleaming weapon back over and forward, taking the nightsister's head. She did not hesitate, or pause, only ended the conflict, swiftly and completely.

As the tattooed body fell to the floor the surviving ice cats howled and raged, thrashing wildly.

They were soon silenced by strikes of bloody magenta spheres.

Shakvail did not see this, or even the nightsister's fall. Her eyes were cast downward, to tomb below her feet. There the dust swirled and shifted, the decay of centuries giving way to a strange flicker in the Force that she saw without seeing. A moment later a pale luminous pulse began in those desiccated remains, only to rise up slowly.

It formed into the transparent image of a woman, seemingly human but with odd marks around the eyes and altered ears. She wore Jedi robes in a style thousands of years old, and had a wise, carefree face. Her eyes, bright green and sparkling, glanced deep into Shakvail's as she floated higher.

The ghostly manifestation placed her hands around the padawan's, and Shakvail felt not cold, but soft, diffuse warmth. A strange joy came over her then, and a feeling of grace and contentment. The ancient Jedi smiled silently, and wrapped her hands about the lightsaber and Shakvail's hands as one.

Then she faded away softly into nothing once more.

Shakvail stood silently, dumbfounded and confused, her body recovering from the aftereffects of her breaker trance, as she tried to comprehend what had just happened.

A hand closed over her own.

"Master?" still shaken, Shakvail turned to look upon Z'meer.

The Jedi Master was covered in blood and viscera, but in the Force it was clear none was her own. "The dead can confer their trust as well as the living, for the Force is not strictly bound by time. Accept this, and do not ponder it further. It simply is, that is enough."

"Yes master," The Safol, in awe at the eerie feeling the moment had invoked, acknowledged this wisdom. She preferred the mysteries of the living to daring those of death.

"A pity she bound the ice cats so closely to herself that they could not survive the loss," Z'meer continued, softly, and lightly regretful. "So does the dark side hurt the innocent even in defeat."

Shakvail could muster little care for the fate of the ice cats. Their will had been consumed by their master; they were already dead before battle had even begun. "And her?" she gestured to the fallen nightsister.

"A lesson in the corruption of the dark side, and the false rewards of power," Z'meer demurred, and did not look at the body. "That is how it always ends." She turned back to Shakvail. "But no matter, her crimes earned this penalty many times over; we should look to other problems. You are wounded, take care of that. I will see about a certain stone slab that blocks the way out."

"Yes master," the padawan winced, feeling the pain at last, and it was brutal. Only constant exertion of will kept her standing.

As Z'meer turned away she said one last thing, so softy only the aid of the Force allowed Shakvail to hear. "It seems you finally understood me, didn't you, Shakvail?"

**Notes**

Diado is a canon planet, if an obscure one. It was a snow-covered world that appeared briefly in the Clone Wars Adventures comics. Most of the details are my own.

Ice Cats are canonical creatures, known to be native to Hoth and Ilum. I have chosen to import them to Diado. Their appearance is based on their images in SWTOR.

Nightsisters, while native to Dathomir, have a funny tendency to get around, so I feel secure in placing one in an obscure location in the Mid Rim. The nature of the facility she has commandeered is left to mystery (lightsaber-deadening energy fields will be explained in the future).

Regarding Z'meer's earrings: canon images of the Jedi Master show her wearing spherical earrings of at least golf ball size. Since this seems very unusual for a Jedi I have chosen to impart them with a more...utilitarian...purpose.

In a mechanistic sense Shakvail's Breaker Trance allows her to utilize the Force Power known as Shatterpoint, which is how she smashes the coffin, though it is somewhat more flexible and intuitive than the standard approach.


	4. Knight

**Shakvail: Knight**

**Coruscant**

**Coruscant Sector**

**Core Worlds**

**26 BBY**

Shakvail stood one step behind and one step to the right of her master as they reported to the council. This position symbolized deference and rank, but did not serve to shield her whatsoever from the twelve Jedi Masters who surrounded them on all sides. The padawan felt very nervous, and avoided eye contact with these revered figures.

It was a ridiculous impulse, to try and hide from their view, but she couldn't help it. She knew several members of the council quite well, and had spoken with almost all of them privately at least once, but to meet them like this was different, almost frightening. For a padawan to be part of a meeting with the high council was usually the result of disaster. This was not such a circumstance, but the shadow hung over it all the same.

The masters, for their part, gave Shakvail little attention, focused primarily on the report Z'meer was giving of their most recent mission.

"Most dangerous indeed, this strange weapon you uncovered," Master Yoda's voice was tinged with weary concern. "Certain are you, that destroyed it was?"

"Yes master," Z'meer's voice was calm and steady, displaying a confidence Shakvail dearly wished she could emulate. "When I raised it up again with the Force I discovered there was no holding mechanism, the whole slab shattered to pieces when dropped a second time. It was clearly a single use design."

"Do you know how it worked, precisely?" Plo Koon interjected, his voice betraying his curiosity even through his mask.

Z'meer gave a slight shift of her head, indicating that Shakvail must speak.

The padawan had known this moment was coming, and dreaded it, but she took a single steadying breath and began to explain. "The stone used in the trap had an unusual internal crystalline alignment. This interacted with the metal lining of the holding array to generate a massive natural charge through the friction of its movements when dropped. The lower surface where it struck was coated with a layer of cortosis sheeting four microns think. The force of the strike created a cortosis resonant ion charge that shorted out the connection between the power cells and focusing crystals within our lightsabers." The words tumbled out of her, and only when she stopped did she realize she was racing, but there was no time for embarrassment, the councilors processed her fast words and responded with questions.

"An oddly low-tech method," Master Saesee Tiin interjected. "Could it be duplicated?"

Shakvail had expected this question, and had an answer ready, which aided her nerves. "The stone used was not native to Diado, and that precise crystalline alignment does not appear in our archives. It did not appear to be synthetic in origin, so creating another device would require finding the original source. Preliminary analysis does indicate that large quantities are required to build the necessary charge, and the range seems to be limited to a few meters at most."

"So it could only be used for this sort of trap," Plo Koon summarized. "A small blessing."

"Even so, investigate this, we must," Yoda cautioned, and there were nods of agreement.

"Did you have any success in determining the origin of this strange tomb?" Master Oppo Rancisis questioned.

Z'meer again nodded to Shakvail.

Turning to face the venerable master, the padawan answered, again sticking to what she had more or less prepared beforehand. "The structure was composed almost entirely of common, basic construction materials, which have been in use for most of the Republic's existence. Our best information comes from what could be recovered of the remains. Carbon-dating places the two bodies at roughly thirty-five hundred years old."

"A most turbulent period in galactic history," Rancisis said ominously. "Did you learn anything else? Their identities perhaps?"

"Nothing was preserved," grabbed by the rush of knowledge, Shakvail largely forgot who she was addressing. "Genetic testing was fragmentary, given the state of the remains, but it appears to identify the Jedi Knight as Alkaraki, a near-human species from the western Outer Rim discovered around that period, and her antagonist as Voss."

"Voss," Master Windu spoke the single word and the room fell silent.

Shakvail, suddenly conscious once more of just where she stood, clamped her mouth shut.

"Is there something more Padawan?" Master Rancisis probed lightly.

Tense, and feeling foolish, Shakvail knew better than to try and hide the truth. "I ran these species through the archives, a habit of mine when encountering new names, masters, and much of the information regarding Voss is highly sealed."

"Many reasons for this restriction, may there be," Master Yoda spoke quietly, but drew all eyes to him. "Trust you must, padawan, that good reason the council has for this prohibition."

"Of course master."

"Investigate further, this incident, we must," Yoda continued. "Master Rancisis, if you will."

"I will be happy to follow-up," the Thisspiasian acknowledged, as everyone had felt he would.

"Concluded then, this matter is," Yoda resolved, but without stopping the diminutive Grand Master turned to look directly at Shakvail. "Arisen has, a second subject."

Feeling considerable trepidation, Shakvail made her body obey and faced directly at the elderly master. "Which is?"

"Submitted, your master has, your name to undergo the Jedi Trials."

Shakvail's heart jumped and her mind froze for a long second. At last! She was finally to become a Jedi Knight.

Master Windu picked up where Yoda left off. "The High Council approves this course of action, and it has been determined your Trials shall begin immediately. You will report to the Trials Chamber tomorrow at dawn, but understand that your Trials begin the moment you leave this chamber, and could take many forms."

"I understand Masters," Shakvail, trembling with anticipation and no small amount of trepidation, answered.

"Then we are adjourned," Mace Windu declared.

The high council filed out quickly, but Z'meer paused at the door to speak to her padawan. "This test you must face alone," the human woman explained softly. "But you are a skilled student, and shall be a strong Jedi. Mind what you have learned, hold fast to yourself, and you cannot fail."

"Yes master," the warmth of this statement, especially from her usually reserved master, set Shakvail's heart aflame.

Shakvail awakened at three-twelve am, local time, according to the chrono at her bedside in the small dormitory room she currently occupied.

"Excitement," she muttered, annoyed at herself. A proper Jedi Knight would be able to sleep soundly even before the most important day of her young life, or so she imagined. Not that she was tired, of course. Like most Jedi she needed only a modest amount of sleep, and she had spent almost the entire return journey from Diado in healing trances or resting in bed on her master's orders. The wounds to her shins were fully repaired, and she was ready, but it was still annoying.

Denial of her current state of nervous anticipation would be worse than dealing with it, so Shakvail dutifully made ready for the day. She made the usual trip to the refresher, brushed out her parted hair, and put on the traditional pale gray robes of a padawan. Looking at the garments, she thought it might well be the last time she wore them. This was a happy thought, for she disliked the color, it was too soft, too weak, and made her hair stand out too much.

She rather hoped to change into something darker, perhaps charcoal gray or indigo, soon.

With roughly four hours remaining before she must report to the Trial chamber, Shakvail refused to waste time. She was not in the mood to meditate, and instead walked quickly through the temple, taking a well-worn path down to the Archives.

While the Jedi Temple was surely busiest during Coruscant's daylight hours, it was always active, even late in the night. Jedi stationed off-world often did not bother to adjust to local time on brief return trips, members of nocturnal species were naturally more active at night, and some Jedi simply preferred the relative calm of the deep hours when others slept.

The archives of the temple had a fairly regular set of nighttime occupants, and most were known to Shakvail, for the padawan had a reputation for pulling all-night research sessions in preparation for missions to far-flung locations in the Rim. Several rose from their workstations as she passed, giving nods of acknowledgment and encouragement. The temple had few secrets, and all knew she was to undergo the trials. No one spoke to her, keeping a careful distance to avoid interference.

Shakvail picked a station and booted up her log in, hoping to get some work done while she might. Fascinated by the woman who had passed her the lightsaber she now carried, she sought out everything she could on the Alkaraki. An obscure species, far from galactic events, many of the entries were centuries out of date and desperately in need of revision. This was common in the archives, which had been understaffed for a very long time. So she searched the HoloNet, scrolling through public sources and a variety of private resources the Jedi had the right to access. Taking careful notes she assembled revised versions of various entries and prepared to send them on for review to the analysis droids.

Periodically Shakvail's terminal would ping with an alert, indicating mail from an associate, or an update for a search she had running in the background. She checked these frequently, filing them or ignoring them as appropriate.

At five-nineteen she received a message from a distant branch of the Intergalactic Zoological Society. Opening it, her eyes were pulled fully around by the headline: Safol sighting in Klina Sector.

She managed to keep to her chair, barely, and sought focus in the Force. It was not lost on her that this could be, and in fact probably was, a test. It could also be entirely real, and simply an error, something that had occurred at least three times in the past decade. The final possibility, and the one she could not ignore, was that a member of her species had actually been found.

"Normal, keep it normal," she muttered to herself. She had to handle everything as she would otherwise. This wasn't the first report, nor would it be the last. She'd followed several mysteries of species diversity over the years, at the behest of Jedi, government, and private interests. There was a right way to do things, and that was the only way.

So she took the report, pried it apart, and started to authenticate it. Shakvail was no slicer, but she understood documentation, procedure, and protocol. She could pry free the truth from the thousand lies that swarmed about the scholarly community of the galaxy, a realm full of corruption, graft, and exaggeration, truth obscured by a mountain of money. It was a depressing reality, that science, art, and the pursuit of knowledge had been so corrupted, but the Jedi were responsible for fighting for more than one kind of justice, and this was a duty she felt called to pursue.

Bureaucracy leaves a certain kind of evidence behind, recognizable if the viewer is cued to the right language. She was able to authenticate the origin of the message as legitimate, and the sender as real, but the content was far more questionable. The report was second-hand, passed on by a customs office on a minor space station at the edge of Hutt Space, an area only marginally under the Republic's control at the best of times, which these were not. Shakvail dismissed the series of garbled statistics generated to provide an illusion of substance, and focused instead on the images attached.

They were grainy, marginal, taken from an overhead security camera designed for spotting violence, not identifying telltale features. Shakvail took a single look and was far from convinced. There was a male near-human in the footage, one with eyes that might be teardrop-shaped, and hair that was the correct interlaced random pattern, but it all just felt off. She suspected a low-level entertainer with interesting tastes in dyes was more likely. Despite this, she could not discount the possibility that she was staring at a member of her species.

The feeling of wrongness, an intuitive sense that something was incorrect, stayed with her, and she took a look at the report again. There was something oddly familiar to the scenario.

On an impulse she did not fully grasp, but refused to ignore, she ordered a comparison search of the file to existing records.

It returned a single match.

The file was an almost-identical match to a report issued ninety-five years previous; one that had never been followed up and had vanished without a trace afterward. Looking at both side by side, Shakvail saw that the timestamp had been altered. A remarkably simply maneuver to provide a false report, one she now remembered having looked at during her initiate years.

Chuckling slightly, she turned away, recognizing this for the test it was. It seemed a sign that now was a good time to stop playing data games and prepare for her challenge when dawn came. Feeling oddly relaxed, tension drained away, she moved to close the terminal.

Her finger froze mere millimeters above the button.

Something held her back. She could not define it, but she recognized that to simply stop there would be a mistake.

She sat back down and re-opened the file. A test, it certainly was, a deliberately falsified document designed to measure her vulnerability, or capriciousness, or some such feature. It was surely that, it had to be. Yet she was not convinced.

It was too easy.

The padawan's mind stuck on that, the challenge was not difficult enough. Discerning the truth had been too simple. No test for knighthood would be so basic, play so easily to her strengths.

Altered the timestamp, falsified a file and rerouted though the Outer Rim. Shakvail stepped back, moving away from the screen to think. Grasp the entire problem, not just a piece of it. Don't think about the test; think about the totality of the situation.

Her left hand shot up above her head a moment later.

"Master Sinube!' Shakvail called, having seen the elderly Cosian Jedi when she arrived earlier, and knowing he often worked nights.

"Hmm…" the beaked Jedi Master sauntered over, leaning on his cane and moving with his trademark slow deliberateness. "What is it young one?"

"I believe I have a security breach to report," she pointed to her screen. "This file was doctored with an altered time stamp and rerouted through a relay on the Outer Rim when it in fact came from our archives. You are the senior Jedi present so…"

"Very good, yes," Master Sinube noted. "This is indeed serious, we should make sure to investigate, why if the security of the archives have been compromised there's no telling what trouble we might face." He waved over one of the floating JN-66 analysis droids. "We must investigate this thoroughly."

Now came the ultimate question of whether this was only a test, and more importantly, whether or not she had passed. Shakvail glanced at the chrono display in the corner of the terminal. "Master, I'm due to be in the Trial Chamber in less than an hour. I will delay, of course, unless you feel everything is under control."

The elderly Cosian's beak twisted in a rough approximation of a human smile. "You might as well run along, young one, I'm sure the droids and I can handle this, and Master Nu when she arises for the day. Best not to keep the Council waiting," Sinube's mirth extended into the Force, and the padawan knew that this was indeed a ruse, but her response had been noted.

"Thank you master," Shakvail bowed swiftly, and hurried from the hall.

The Jedi Trials chamber was located deep within the temple, in a structurally isolated location just in case matters got a little out of hand during testing. It was reached through a dead-end hallway that did not prompt idle visits, so only those who were required to be there would find their way. The hall had no door, and so Shakvail simply stepped through the archway into the chamber.

High-vaulted and massive, the ceiling receded above her as she entered, drawing the eyes upward. Statues of ancient masters, all at least a thousand years dead, lined the stepped platforms, massive stern figures in stone and bronzium, staring down with empty timeless eyes on all those who dared to enter.

This imagery did not persist, for as the padawan's boot tapped its first step on that stone tiling the backdrop changed.

The Trials Chamber vanished, to be replaced by a much smaller room, one with austere decoration and wide windows letting in the view of Coruscant's speeder-clogged skyways and high towers behind. It expanded around Shakvail, drawing her into the center. Five wide chairs rose from the floor, centered around a single small pedestal in the center, one meter high and topped with an open metal box, inlaid in wrought iron.

As shocking as this shift might have been in other circumstances, it was oddly seamless. Powered by one of the most advanced holoprojection systems in the galaxy, the recreation was flawless, and induced a false truth through all five senses. The Safol could only just tell it was a simulation, empowered by the insight of the Force, and the occasional split-second gap in the visuals as they struggled to keep up with the adjustment of her long-skewed optical motion.

She knew this room, and dreaded it. This was the chamber of the Reassignment Council. Even as she watched the five Masters who governed this most ominous of Jedi agencies ushered in, taking their seats and staring down at her with cold, sorrowful eyes.

"Padawan Shakvail," the leader of the council spoke. His voice was deep, quiet, and compassionate, but also without mercy or remorse. "You have been summoned here for a final review of your case. The council shall deliberate with you present. You are not to interrupt, but may speak as your own advocate if called upon. Do you understand?"

"Yes master," she knew the forms, every Initiate, every Padawan, knew the forms, all had watched friends summoned for this specific purpose, and then watched them leave the Temple afterward, never to return.

Without further ceremony, they began to debate.

It was a simple process, each master raising examples from her record, analyzing them with comment by the others, and then weighing the matter accordingly. Shakvail was offered the chance to explain her choices twice, and to apologize for a personal failure once, but that was all. She was otherwise frozen out, a mere spectator as her fate was determined.

How long they spoke the padawan did not know; could not keep track. Words and issues blurred together, melding with her personal memories, often ever-so-slightly different from what these ethereal masters claimed had happened. Slowly her hopes faded, and she came to look upon the end of the discussion as a terrible inevitability, an arrow flying at her face she could not possibly dodge; must not.

In the end it was as she expected. The voices died away into silence, only for the leader of the council to speak with slow clarity. "It is the will of this council that the Force has not chosen you to serve as a Jedi Knight. In recognition of your contributions to scholarship, you are hereby assigned to the Jedi Educational Corps."

It was a brutal proclamation, and Shakvail stood shock still, unmoving in silence, for a long time. Her dreams dissipated, blown away as vapor before those stone faces around her. She would not be a Jedi Knight, consigned instead to labor out her life in the archives, valuable but forgotten, the last lonely Safol buried in history rather than searching to reclaim it.

"In recognition of this determination, Padawan Shakvail, you are required to surrender your lightsaber to the keeping of the Order," the master continued. "Please place it in the receptacle provided."

Shakvail's gaze turned to that little box, and noticed its cushioned interior for the first time. There a small, cylindrical depression existed, suitable for a very specific sort of weapon.

Hands trembling, she un-clipped the lightsaber from her belt.

At the core of her existence, deep down in the bowels of her mind where the truth of her being resided, she was aware that this was a simulation, a test. Yet she knew that did not mean it was not real, was not true.

This fate, this reassignment, was possible, and it was not her right to protest. A Jedi, of any sort, whether knight or corpsman, must acknowledge this demonstration of authority and the will of the Force.

She took the ancient lightsaber, marked with its delicate jade inlay of abstract whorls in gentle green, the weapon so recently bequeathed to her by a Jedi of a former era, and slowly, gently, placed it in that velvet case.

Motion stopped. The simulation froze, broke, and crumbled, dissipating almost instantly.

Only the little pillar and case remained, with Shakvail's lightsaber sitting there, looking delicate, a piece of artwork, not a killing tool.

"Very good padawan," a strong and vibrant voice echoed through the chamber from behind her. "Now pick it up."

Shakvail did as instructed, and turned to see Mace Windu standing behind her, a rare smile on his face. "So it was a test," the Safol managed, still numbed from the experience.

"Actually, two," Windu corrected lightly.

The remark imparted the duty to Shakvail to answer which tests it had been. "The Trial of Courage, and…" she paused, feeling her way back through the experience, awful though that was. "The Trial of the Flesh."

"Yes," the Jedi Master nodded. "The courage to go forward in the face of terrible loss, and the experience of that loss. Physical induction of pain is pointless against any species that undergoes hormonal override, but the loss of dreams is a pain all its own."

The padawan accepted this, though she felt the method was brutally grim. Was such a harsh test so necessary? Only the masters could say. She was not ready to make such judgments. "So I am not going to have to turn in my lightsaber after all?"

"That remains to be seen," Master Windu said evenly. "You have passed three trials, but two remain. One stands before you now."

"So you are my Trial of Skill?" Shakvail's mouth crept up on one side, making a half-smile. "I thought it might be."

"I possess the ability to perceive shatterpoints," this was well known, though little spoken of, in the Order. "Something very rare, even among Jedi. You possess a similar ability, though one granted by biology, not the Force. I wish to see its full capacity for myself."

"Well then, no point in waiting around, yes?" Shakvail smiled.

"Quite," Windu made a gesture with his hand, swiftly sweeping the little pillar and box to the far side of the chamber with the Force. He reached down and pulled free his lightsaber, igniting the unique violet blade with the signature snap-hiss.

Shakvail activated her lightsaber, the gently transparent green blade that was as solid as any other despite its image, in response. She took the blade in both hands, raising it high to even with her chin, and slid her right foot slightly forward.

Windu shifted his own stance, raising his own blade high in a two-handed grip, angled back above his head.

This was the two-handed stance of Djem So, defensive but strong and powerful. It was also far from the master's most capable attack. Neither choice surprised Shakvail. "Djem So against Niman?" she called, slowly advancing, circling for position against the master's counter maneuvering. "As I recall the last time you chose Ataru."

"Variation is important when facing the same opponent," Windu's mouth moved separate from his eyes, which remained focused on the padawan's motions.

"True," twice before Shakvail had crossed blades with the esteemed master duelist, both times for practice purposes only. "Don't think I'm the same simply because I use the same form."

"Doubtless you have new tricks, just like your master," Windu commented, causing the padawan to recall how Z'meer's report of fighting with her earrings had turned a few heads.

Shakvail kept her saber steady, feeling the flow of the Force around her, considering her options. Niman was her method, variable, practical, and adaptive, the form favored by her master, who melded the Force with the blade in battle and considered lightsaber dueling vaguely anachronistic, something her padawan had long shared. Mace Windu stood in stark contrast to that philosophy, a man who had mastered all forms of lightsaber combat and pushed the method to its very limits and perhaps beyond out of shear love of the artistry of the blade.

How should she attack?

She moved closer, and then charged the final three steps, bringing her saber down with all her might.

Windu blocked head-on; meeting the blade and throwing it aside, positioning for a brutal counterstrike.

Shakvail ignored the oncoming blow, snapping out her right foot instead, channeling the Force with all her strength, and hurling a stream of power at the Jedi Master.

This move, unorthodox and somewhat reckless though it was, forced Windu to abort his blow, pulling his saber back with a cloak of the Force in order to block.

Shakvail took her space to bring forth another attack, falling into a series of quick jabs, but her foe was the swifter, and Windu intercepted the attacks, turning them back and launching a powerful one-two set of counters that the padawan was hard pressed to block. The second blow had sufficient power behind it to toss her halfway across the room, gasping for breath.

She struck back with the Force, stomping down to send a disruptive tremor through the floor before leaping in to attack.

Windu turned, anchored in place by his will, and his blade met the attack above his head, hurling the Safol aside.

Shakvail landed rolling, and had to flip back to avoid a deadly aerial lunge as the violet blade carved a deep mark through the tiles. She responded by stabbing at Windu's face from a crouched posture, leading to an exchange of blows with both Jedi half-standing. The master countered by trying to pound her blade to the floor, but she managed to spin away, allowing both combatants to surge upright once more.

For several minutes they continued in this vein, blow and counter-blow, battle twisting and turning, but Shakvail knew it could not last. Mace Windu's advantage was substantial and overwhelming, and it was only a matter of time before he pressed home and she was unable to escape.

She had to break through, and knowing this, her body responded.

Locked saber to saber, Shakvail's focus shifted, her energy changed, and her perception moved to a different, simplified plane where connections pierced through all possibilities, revealing the essential openings in every substance, every moment.

Her arms bent, suddenly flexing to gelatin, before hardening again to stab two swift strikes, one at each knee.

Windu scrambled backwards, barely in time, and pants displayed a slender tear above the left boot.

"So, the gloves are off then?" the Jedi Master pronounced, and in the next moment his movements changed as well.

His form melted, the strong, heavy cadence of Djem So dissipating into a chaotic staccato series of shifts and shunts, irregular and unpredictable even as their speed increased to incredible levels.

Though he possessed a single lightsaber and a mere two arms, a watcher would have sworn that Mace Windu had ten times that, or perhaps several completely separate bodies, flowing atop one another in a single united combat presence. This was Vaapad, most aggressive, dangerous, and deadly of all methods, and Windu's was its master. He shot forward, power whipping through him, an atom shot through in a super-collider of the Force.

The many rapid and unpredictable strikes of Vaapad could overwhelm almost any defense, and easily confuse and crush any who tried to keep up with that whirlwind bladestorm.

But Shakvail was not watching those blades. Drawing deeply on the Force, she stood before the storm, pulling her defense in tight about her, blocking each attack as the force warned her, fending off the fearful assault at the last moment, even as each attack pressed closer and closer in a cycle with a single, certain outcome.

It did not matter, she did not care, instead her body sought out the key juncture, the sole critical moment of opening in the empty space between those frenzied sweeps.

Then she had it.

She struck.

The Force rang like a bell in the minds of the Jedi, and both stopped suddenly, frozen in mid-motion.

Shakvail felt the steady hum of a lightsaber beneath her ear, and the hair at the back of her neck stood on end from the coiled charges there, as the violet blade hovered at the edge of her flesh, a fingernail's width from the skin.

"You are dead, padawan," Mace Windu noted levelly.

Shakvail swallowed, but managed to return. "And you shall need to be fitted with a prosthetic, master."

Windu's eyes drifted downward, and both saw the truth in the claim, for Shakvail's green blade stood the end of his left leg, just below the hip socket.

Both deactivated the weapons in the next moment.

"A head for a leg is not an ideal trade," Windu noted quietly.

"True," Shakvail could still feel that cut hanging so close. It was a stark reminder of just how deadly the masters truly were.

"You will never be a pure duelist, but it is without doubt that you possess sufficient skill to serve as a knight," the jedi master told her. "So now a single trial remains."

"Spirit."

"To face the mirror is most dangerous, perhaps more than facing bare blades," Windu noted. "You must meditate deeply, and pass into the heart of yourself; to the places you fear the most. I will remain here, to guide you to the path, and to pull you back when you are done, but the journey is yours alone."

"I understand master," though she deeply wished it were Master Bothu, whom she trusted above all others, rather than the somewhat remote and imperious Master Windu, she had to proceed regardless. Always an opaque test, Shakvail was further in question than most when it came to facing the mirror, for though she had been raised among humans, she was Safol, and who could say what lurked inside her consciousness.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Shakvail closed her eyes, and began to walk the long, deep spiral road down to her core.

Oddly, Shakvail found looking inward brought her outward, as she drifted up above the temple, then the planet, then the star system, and eventually the entire galaxy. Entranced by this vast image, it took her a moment to realize the galaxy was spinning in reverse, tracking backwards on an axis her mind somehow immediately understood to be that of time itself.

The vast luminous vortex of gas and stars sucked her down, whirling and spinning in a massive funnel of collapsed awareness as she screamed inward at speeds beyond physics into the grasp on a single star, then a planet, and finally to the top of a ruddy muddy hillside covered in yellowed plant life.

Shakvail raised her head to grasp a vast open steppe, swaying with pale grasses displaying wide spiderweb-like seed heads heavy with their cargo of embryonic life. In the distance a river wound lethargic across the plains, surrounded by swaying green grasses tall as trees. Quartz-white spider-form creatures the size of cats crawled among them, consuming downed shoots and understory ferns. In the sky above flimsy creatures with long legs and bearing parachutes of webbing glided through the air, gathering in the thick film of wind-borne pollen.

It was a vista Shakvail had seen in old holos and her dreams, the home planet of her species, Dalenspir.

Her gaze turned to the west, where the sun was setting, heavy and orange on the horizon. Resting there was a small village composed in equal parts of traditional structures of woven split culms from the native grasses, and modern prefabricated houses and machinery. The village seemed oddly empty, for there was no one about, even as Shakvail rose from her perch and walked toward it, feeling totally physical once more.

The reason for this silence from the village became clear soon after, just as she was within shouting distance.

Screaming with the roar of high-powered atmospheric engines, a pair of gunships blasted across the steppe, passing over the head of the Jedi. Great rhomboid monstrosities, all power and no grace, their design betrayed the era of their making, and thus that of the vista they suddenly dominated.

In that moment Shakvail knew exactly when this was, and what was happening.

A cry of anguish escaped her lips and she tore into a run, charging forward with all her strength.

The ground seemed to be made of mud beneath her, and her progress was a limpid crawl, suspended in place as she watched matters unfold.

Powerfully built figures in full suits of armor, coated a matte black and laced with yellow and green symbols, repelled down suspended lines, blasting as they came. They carried heavy rifles, grenade launchers, and other implements of death, and unleashed them indiscriminately on everything in their path. Landing, they charged from building to building, setting great fires and striking down anything that failed to match their colors.

They were not unopposed. Local people, Safols in traditional smocks and wraps issued from their homes to fire at these shock troops with sporting blasters, hunting slugthrowers, and homemade explosives. They were grand in their bravery and stout in the defense of their homes, but they were no match for the vast machine of death unleashed upon them in the name of a Sith Lord. They fought, and they failed, and they broke and ran, men and boys desperately trying to shield woman and children from those hideous weapons.

The horrors expanded through eyes that could not be closed, as Shakvail looked on. The troopers spared no one, gunning down everything in sight, kicking the bodies of parents so they rolled over and revealed screaming infants sheltering beneath. They set fire to every house, shed, and livestock pen to insure no survivors.

Shakvail's presence dashed into the village, and she was overcome with loss and rage. Finally able to move she dashed to the nearest Sith trooper, pulling free her lightsaber. Igniting the blade, she stabbed the man from behind, cleaving his heart in two before he could even see her.

He did not fall.

The trooper did not move, or groan, or show any sign of injury. He was unaware of Shakvail entirely, continuing his deadly rounds without knowledge of the Jedi's presence.

The Safol struck again with her lightsaber, and when that failed pounded and kicked, all to no avail. She was divorced from this reality, unable to do anything, to harm or heal, to save or punish, sentenced to the indescribable grief of the observer, to watch her people die while she stood unable to use her gifts to aid them one iota.

"It's not fair," she whispered, blinking through tears of terrible suffering. "It's not fair, not at all," In her blurred vision a child jumped from the second story of a burning barn, falling with shattered legs upon hard ground. The cries of pain drew around a helmeted head, and the blaster rose, aimed.

"Not…FAIR!" Shakvail howled, and her loss turned to fury, a firestorm of rage within her.

Her left hand shot forward, and her fingers splayed wide. Power gathered in her as that rifle came up and the little child, a girl not more than three, stared into the eyeless visor of her killer not two meters away.

Coiled energy, molten and scraping, ripped out of Shakvail, tearing across the muddy, ashen ground. Her vision went red, and the world seemed to bathe in blood.

Her invocation struck the trooper across his body, and he disintegrated, carved apart by the impact of ten thousand shearing scythes. A bloody ruin of intermingled bone and plasteel composite on the far wall was all that remained.

Sickening satisfaction, the taste of vengeance hot and crimson, blossomed on Shakvail's tongue, scented with a metal tinge. She rose up; casting her awareness about, searching for those who deserved the scourge she had been granted.

They were many, and she began to pull power in towards her, gathering it to lay waste to the lot.

A harsh, shrill sound interrupted her concentration.

The child was still screaming, only now the pain was somehow deeper, fuller.

Shakvail turned, and saw the blood from the girl's wounded legs was being drawn away, pulled toward her, mixed in with the dead trooper beyond, and all those fallen, rising up to drape their new mistress in a coat of honor.

In sudden revelation, the fullness of horror dawned on Shakvail, and she was consumed with the need to know the truth.

She bit down as hard as she could; sharp teeth against her tongue, lacing a brutal gouge.

Her blood filled her mouth, and it had the same taste as her vengeance.

She coughed, screamed, and clawed at her face, letting the power flow our of her, burning all the way, as her cries of rage turned to sobs, and her vision went dark, stricken with her helplessness.

She collapsed to her knees, bent forward with her hands in the ash, blood, and mud beneath.

It felt cool, the smooth empty texture of polished tile.

In the darkness sound vanished, and then smell; all the horrors of her vision suddenly peeled away, a single drop of rain buried beneath billions of others, lost in the crowd of the galaxy, each star a little drop, where life went on.

She came up gasping for breath, hardly able to breathe. Copper and iron filled her nostrils, and she suddenly realized her she was chocking on her own blood.

Turning her head, Shakvail spat a stream of red ruin onto the tiles of the trial chamber, joined moments later by the tears running down her cheeks.

"Shakvail!" She felt Mace Windu's strong arms grab her shoulders then. The warmth and strength of the Force flowed into her haggard frame, providing some solace. "Focus, stay calm. Are you injured?"

"I bit my tongue," she lisped, and reached to her belt for the small emergency medpac that was kept there. After a moment of fumbling, she managed to gather up the little canister of spray-bandage, open her mouth, and apply the stuff. It stung sharply, and filled her senses with the sick-sweet taste of the bacta imbued in the spray. Foul though it was, it was effective, and the bleeding stopped almost immediately, the wound already beginning to close.

"I see…" Windu's voice was soft, hesitant. "It seems that experience, being wholly physical, did not transmit through the vision.

"All that…" Shakvail struggled to pull herself together, feeling everywhere raw and delicate, as if the lightest touch would scar her. "Was inside me?"

"Darkness resides in every being," Mace Windu knelt beside her. "It stems from natural impulses. You feel deeply the absence of your species from your life, and mourn their loss. You also wish to see those who killed them punished. These are not radical beliefs, and having them is not wrong, but as Jedi we must be able to let go of the passions they bequeath, lest our emotion overwhelm us. You have just passed through the full crucible of the Jedi Code."

"It was…so…so…hard…" she breathed. "Even at the end, I still wanted to rip them all apart."

"To be a Jedi is never easy, we are tested every day. That is the price of power. You have just glanced into that abyss," the Jedi Master paused deeply. "To a place I confess to be deeper than most go, but you were able to turn away. Remember that, for it will be a source of strength in days to come."

Shakvail latched on to these final words, drinking them in desperately. "Then, I passed? I'm a Jedi Knight."

Now Windu smiled. "Effectively, yes, but the Council has a formal ceremony for this sort of thing. I do hope you'll indulge us."

"Of course," Shakvail's mouth opened, and soon she found she was wracking by uncontrollable laughter, tears pouring down her cheeks.

When she regained control, Mace Windu hooked an arm under her shoulder and lifted her up. "Though I think we should take you to the infirmary first, to make certain of that injury. Odd, I have conducted many trials, but you are the first to suffer an injury in the Trial of Spirit, rather than Skill."

"The price of being unique," Shakvail muttered. Somehow, saying that no longer hurt the way it once had.

By the time she walked up the final set up steps to the highest level of the Tranquility Spire Shakvail believed that the day and night of meditation she had just endured was primarily a measure to beat giddy anticipation out of padawans so they were appropriately somber prior to this moment rather than serving some grand functional purpose. She had found little revealed in contemplating her future, for what was there to consider? She was not a knight yet, pro forma though the ceremony might be.

She did reflect that, even on this day, passing through a ceremony that was as close to identical for all Jedi as could be made possible, she was doing something unique. If the archives could be believed, and on matters of membership they were generally extremely accurate, she was the first Safol to ever carry the mantle of Jedi Knight.

Walking all but soundlessly in soft slippers, Shakvail exited the stairway into the Hall of Knighthood. Closed to the sky outside, the room was without internal light of any kind, staying perfectly black.

Without needing illumination, drawn by the Force and the trail left by thousands of padawans before her, she marched to the center of the chamber, where she knelt.

She could feel the arrival of others through the Force, and their satisfaction.

Then the first lightsaber ignited. Others followed in sequence, until a full ring of twelve stood around her, with Grand Master Yoda centered in front.

Though Shakvail kept her eyes focused on the Grand Master, she could not help but feel the presence of her own master, Z'meer Bothu, among the group, filling the position of Ki-Adi-Mundi, currently off-planet.

Standing atop a raised platform to compensate for his height, Master Yoda spoke first. "We are all Jedi. The Force speaks through us. Through our actions the Force proclaims itself and what is real. Today we are here to acknowledge what the Force has proclaimed."

"Shakvail," Yoda looked straight into her eyes, and she could not help but feel her whole existence was being measured by the Grand Master, as a master jeweler might examine a creation before releasing it at last for sale.

Slowly the Grand Master brought his green blade down on each of her shoulders. As he did he proclaimed. "By the right of the Council, by the will of the Force, I dub thee, Knight of the Republic."

As the Grand Master raised his blade the last time, he cut free the slender braid of red-black hair that hung behind her right ear, letting it fall to the floor easily.

Shakvail stood with careful grace. Taking her lightsaber in hand, she ignited it, letting her blade join the others in brightening the darkened chamber. Then she turned and walked out, in fulsome silence.

She was a Jedi Knight now; her destiny had advanced to the next stage.

She felt truly at peace with her fate for the first time.

**Notes**

Cortosis has proven to have a surprisingly flexible set of lightsaber-blocking impacts in the canon, so I feel adding one more obscure method to the list does no harm.

The Alkaraki species are my invention; they may remain relevant to Shakvail in the future.

The reference to the Voss relies on the story of that species in SWTOR. Without spoilers, suffice it to say that they allow for many options to be attributed to them.

Master Tera Sinube is a canon character, having appeared in the 'Lightsaber Lost' episode of TCW. I believe his presence in the archives late at night is consistent with his character.

The Council of Reassignment, or Reassignment council, is the canon body with the authority to determine Jedi advancement and placement. No member is named in canon, and I have avoided doing so.

The various aspects of the Jedi Trials, the Knighting Ceremony, and lightsaber forms are all taken from canon (in particular, Yoda's words during the ceremony, are repeated exactly from the one known example of Anakin's knighting). As existing examples are limited to effectively Anakin Skywalker, I have generated many details myself.


	5. Consular

**Shakvail: Consular**

**Nylath**

**Ferra Sector**

**Outer Rim Territories**

**24 BBY**

The sun did not set on Nylath; it merely faded slowly, light diminishing gradually, first in the west, then in the east, as the planet commenced its slow rotation. High clouds, ruddy orange and resembling nothing so much as riverbed clay, encompassed the totality of the horizon. Life-giving, the clay sky held and dispersed light and heat, rendering the planet habitable, but it made for a barren vista.

Plants and the lethargic local fauna might mark time by the slow ebb-and-flow of reddish brightness as Nylath churned weakly through its fifty-two hour day, but the planet's sentients, immigrants all, largely ignored these patterns. Visitors too paid little attention to the day and night cycle, finding whatever rhythm suited them best.

Shakvail had adopted native custom, twenty hours of activity followed by ten of rest, a traditional practice that served well enough. Night was little barrier to her here, on a planet that only dimmed, and never truly fell into darkness.

So as the planet's spin banished the little red dwarf they orbited beyond the curvature of this lonely world, she continued to work. She wound her way among loose stones and boulders, clearing sand, moss, and lichen from fallen poles and benches, wielding a probe in one hand and a portable scanner in the other. Her eyes drifted back and forth, scouting for telltales, the glimmer and sheen of old electronics, anything that might retain a record. It was a low-percentage gambit, but one she relied on, the thrill of the search carried her through the monotony of mapping.

She worked alone, moving through the half-buried pieces at her own pace, but she was not alone. A quartet of locals, Vilnare Kano and his three boys, worked to maintain the survey camp, pack up artifacts, and feed everything the Jedi did not deem valuable through a salvage furnace. Shakvail's stomach tightened every time she saw the sputtering thing bite its way through another chunk of girder or roofing material, but she had little choice. That angry demonstration of recycling technology was the difference between a project on a budget and no project at all.

Light caught on the edge of her glowrod's halo, and the Jedi grasped the reflection of a shiny bit of wiring. Shuffling over she scrapped and brushed at the dust long enough to reveal a small silvery half-moon shape. Gingerly she grasped the piece of aged holodisc, taking a cleaning tool from her belt to brush it off before wrapping it in a sterile flimsy package and placing it among the other recovered items.

"Miss Jedi, what's the use of all this stuff, really?" Kano's youngest, a boy of twelve, interrupted as she entered the log for this newest artifact.

The Kanos were not native to Nylath; Vilnare had arrived with his family ten years earlier, after a tramp liner made an emergency refueling stop when an engine failed. Seeing a world without a Trade Federation presence, the then destitute metals engineer had decided to stay. Now he ran a mobile salvage shop, pulling wealth out of ruins the locals would not touch.

"This," Shakvail held up the piece of holodisc. "And others like it, are all that remains of the legacy of Dark Lord Nevath Jermin, the Sith who once ruled this planet, and who was partially responsible for those who now live here." Shakvail looked down at the young human, an earnest boy with red hair and bright eyes. "If we don't recover those pieces we can't piece together what happened here, and why, so we won't be prepared the next time someone tries, and the Spri'Leks will never know the truth behind their beginnings."

"Dad says they don't wanna know," the boy protested.

Shakvail bit back a sigh. This complaint was not without a depressing germ of truth. "Many people flee from hard truths. That transcends place, age, and species, but it is no reason to ignore knowledge. Besides, there is practical value to be gained, medical data, environmental trends, even the potential location of old ordinance."

"Junior, leave the lady alone and help your brothers wrap that fencing!" Vilnare shouted from his post by the furnace. The burly engineer, heavily bearded in reaction to Nylath's perpetually just-above-freezing temperatures, boomed. With his wild red mane, moss-weave wide-brim hat, and grungy coveralls the man looked as if he'd lived in the backwoods his whole life. Even with Jedi insight Shakvail would never have guessed he'd been born and raised in the urban industrial hive of Eriadu.

"Call on the com for you ma'am," Vilnare added, pointing to their small field transceiver. "It's that hunter, Wol."

Shakvail tapped her ear immediately, activating the unit there. "This is Shakvail, what's happening?"

Wol Ferinth was not a man to waste words. "Doctor Lamiss' got some kind of emergency, weird injuries, don't make sense. He needs help, so maybe you could take a look?"

The Jedi knew Lamiss, having met with him several times in the path months. An immigrant like Vilnare, the Sluissi medic refused to believe in the Force, but he was a virtuous sentient who worked hard for Nylath's betterment. "Where's the doctor now?"

"Ronebridge," the hunter replied. "I'm headed north myself, and I'll meet you there."

"Good idea," Shakvail acknowledged. Wol was no healer, but he was respected locally, and she'd learned a man like that was good to have around. She'd worked hard to win Spri'Lek trust, but having someone to vouch for her never hurt. "I'll head out right away." She brought up a map on her datapad, checking route and distance with a single glance. "Master Kano," she called to the salvager. "I'm heading out. You can use sectors one through three, but leave the fourth untouched. If I can't return by tomorrow I'll com you with an update."

"Yes, ma'am," though avaricious in his way, the engineer was an honest man, and Shakvail was certain his word was good. She had no qualms over leaving her small pile of recovered artifacts in his care until she came back. Residue of a Sith occupation they might be, but these ruined remnant outposts had yet to supply anything truly dangerous.

Taking less than a minute to insure all her personal gear was stowed in case of rain or an unlikely windstorm, the Jedi strode swiftly to the edge of the camp and vaulted onto the lonely speeder bike tethered there. Carefully goosing the aged unit's starter, she got in running and ramped up to high speed.

Even an old speeder bike with several worn down components was capable of impressive speeds, and the landscape of Nylath shot past as Shakvail opened the throttle fully and slashed her away across the plains. Rounded, low-rolling, and open, they were an unimpressive vista; massive expanses planted in huge fields measurable in square kilometers dominated the landscape. Composed of cerale, rtace, and yei, three unrelated grains of high visual similarity, they were green-tinged expanses varying in little beyond height, as they grew and ripened slowly in this land without seasons. Only the occasional auto-harvester, processing in the distance, or towering grain bin, broke up the monotony.

Shakvail's speeder stirred a variety of animal life as she passed. Beaked, shelled reptilians in various sizes predominated, alongside the occasional furious swarm of ant-like seed harvesting insects. Once she caught a glimpse of a sleek, scaled body with a long tail flashing through the grain as she jumped a small ridge, possibly one of the elusive Kasuchus predators that were the planet's primary large animals.

The Jedi passed no inhabitants, for these dry, chill uplands were largely abandoned. Spri'Leks might rove their crops to monitor, but they did not live among them.

Ronebridge, like most towns, was located on a river, one of the slow meandering silt-filled waterways that wound the long journey across the plains to the shallow equatorial seas of the planet. On the old bike it was a journey of almost two hours, probably three times what a new speeder, like one of the 74-Zs, might have managed. Shakvail resolved to have the Order find the money for that expense somehow.

The town eventually came into view, a series of long, curving longhouses and Quonsets, placed in a series of concentric, off-center rings; it was a symbolically defensive design, though it provided shelter against the occasional windstorm. Unlike the surroundings, the structures were bright and colorful, painted in loud yellow, red, and green dyes made from insect chitin. The river flowed through the middle, wide and shallow. A heavy bridge, designed to accommodate agricultural equipment and massive tracked grain haulers, arched over this divide, and gave the village a name.

Shakvail pulled up at the edge of town, where another speeder bike waited. Recognizing Wol even in the dimness through the insight of the Force, she slowed, passing by him at little more than walking speed. The hunter, observing her approach, quickly fell in by her side.

"Good of you to come," the hunter began.

Shakvail simply nodded, no explanation was necessary. She was glad she'd hurried; the grim nature of this emergency could be seen in the hardened cast of Wol's face.

Though only into the early stages of middle age, Wol had a deeply lined face, carved by wind and grass, and marked by claw scars from close battles with Kasuchus. It made his dark yellow skin appear almost brown. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, he was tall for a Spri'Lek, and had a full ten centimeters on the Jedi. His high, sloped forehead gave way into the brain-tails that protruded from the back of his skull. They hung behind him, meeting near the base of the neck, where the appendages twined around each other until they merged into a single point at their fullest extent. This unusual feature often drew the eyes of other humanoids, but Shakvail had long since become accustomed to the Spri'Lek appearance and kept her focus on Wol's eyes.

"Lamiss is set up in the school," Wol noted, edging his speeder down one of the roads. "They ran out of room in the clinic."

That was serious news, and the Jedi reached out in the Force, taking in the air, the feel of Ronebridge.

It was a town on edge, nervous and filled with angry energy. A wounded sensation pervaded the body of the populace, though they were still far from broken. Confusion was a strong second impression; the menace that hounded this place was shadowy and unknown, leaving the people in growing fear.

That silent cloud of trepidation cast a pall over the land, and people retreated from it. It was quiet on the streets, with little activity, and the few who were about huddled and slunk from place to place, conducting their duties and nothing more. It brought a scowl to Shakvail's face, she pitied this impulse in all people, but especially in the Spri'Leks, who lived under a great debt of terror as a species.

Wol, by contrast to the villagers, stood tall. The hunter was a man who had beaten his way past such limited impulses, and was ready to whatever life threw at him. This strength bled over to the Jedi, who was glad of it, for it granted acceptance. Shakvail had worked hard to earn trust locally, but this was a great help. It served her well to be seen as called to provide assistance, rather than imposing a Jedi's choices upon the people.

Ronebridge had perhaps three thousand residents, a modest number by Nylath's standards. Its school was a single long building, one that curved in a great crescent on the northern edge. A low haze floated about the building in the Force, the sign of suffering.

The pair marched inside.

Lamiss had set up in the largest classroom, all the stations cleared away. The Sluissi doctor moved slowly along three rows of cots, monitoring close to forty patients. His single assistant, a medical droid older than his advanced years, followed. It administered shots of painkiller or other medication at his instruction.

He looked up as they entered, and straightened on his serpentine base. "The Jedi," Lamiss' Basic was thickly accented, still bearing the marks of the Alderaanian Medical School where he'd learned the art five decades before.

At another time Shakvail might have needled the alien a little, for Lamiss was stubborn to a fault and worth a little verbal sparring, but not with those pained faces staring at her. "What happened to these people?"

"I wish I knew," he shook his head, shoulders slumped. "They were attacked, somehow, but the nature of it is mysterious." He motioned her to one of the patients, a teenage boy thankfully collapsed into slumber.

The doctor pulled back the blanket over the boy to reveal hideous wounds.

Circular lacerations walked their way up and down the legs, brutalizing flesh and leaving bloody gouges livid with painful sores and oozing. The marks were sharp-edged and puckered, as if a tiny rasp had been applied to the skin, pressed in, and spun rapidly in many places. Everywhere on the lower extensions of the limbs, they stopped abruptly just below the hips.

"Something in the water," Shakvail looked to the doctor for confirmation.

"Yes," Lamiss didn't ask how she'd figured it out; the Sluissi had made it clear that he found so-called debunking of the Force to be very tiresome. "Everyone here was in the river earlier today, part of a school activity actually. All this damage was inflicted in just a few minutes."

The Jedi looked closer at the wounds. "These look almost like bites, there's major tissue loss, but I've never seen anything with teeth like that."

"I have," the doctor demurred. "Jawless predators and parasites, including lampreys, might leave such wounds, but no such animal lives on Nylath."

This was quite true, as Shakvail knew well. Nylath's limited ecology lacked for any true aquatic vertebrates, its shallow seas had been re-colonized by air-breathing reptilians. "Did you check the river afterwards?" She asked instead.

"One of the local fishermen dragged a net under the bridge," the Sluissi shook his head. "I haven't had the time to leave my patients."

"I'll see what I can find then," Shakvail offered.

Leaving the doctor to his charges, the Jedi and the hunter walked down to the river, moods bleak.

"Never seen anything that could leave marks like that," Wol muttered. "Nor hear of it."

This was disheartening to Shakvail. There was little that walked, crawled, or fought on Nylath that the hunter had not at least heard of in stories. Something about the whole situation felt wrong to her, twisted somehow.

They went down to the river just below the bridge. The buildings extended nearly to the bank. In a place that lacked seasonality there was little worry for flooding. A small strip of grass lined the side anyway, a gesture to ancient patterns of construction.

A portable bioscanner was one of the many pieces of gear Shakvail kept in her speeder's panniers, and she pulled it free now. Extending the antennae, she plunged them down into the water, trying to localize a better pickup. For roughly a minute she muddled with the unit, taking readings on a variety of frequencies, going through several detection permutations and adjusting certain parameters.

To her considerable astonishment, the machine detected nothing at all.

"That can't be right," Wol, looking over her shoulder, muttered grimly. "No tortas, no kasuchus, not even signs of mud ants, all empty."

Shakvail nodded. "No signs of a toxin spill, drastic temperature change, or anything else that could kill everything in the river either." Her sense of wrongness grew by leaps and bounds.

Taking off the glove on her left hand, the Jedi plunged her hand into the river up to the elbow.

The water was cold, like the air it hovered at only a few degrees above freezing, but she ignored that, instead stretching out into the Force, pushing her awareness down further, deeper into the river. Her consciousness drew on the energy field within and sounded for echoes, the evidence of life.

Nothing answered.

"Something is very wrong here," Shakvail pulled her hand out, shaking it dry as best she could. "There is no life in this river as far as I can sense."

"That's impossible," Wol protested.

The hunter, on the surface at least, correct. Nylath's life was generally boring and lacking in diversity, but it was steady, consistent, and hardy. The planet's rivers were simply not in the business of randomly going dead for several klicks. "You're right," Shakvail noted, feeling tight and worried. There was something dark about this, something that would not stop at a few torn limbs.

On that impulse her decision was made. "I'm going to need a closer look." She looked at the river grimly, and pulled a small boxy object from her belt. Placing it in her mouth, she steeled her nerves, centered her body in the Force, and jumped in.

It was, as expected, bitterly cold, her skin screamed and nerves fired rapidly in a sudden, animal panic. Through the Force the Jedi clamped down, and shunted energy to her limbs, warding off the chill. Physical signals calmed then, and she was able to proceed to the bottom.

Her eyes provided further confirmation of scans and the Force. The river was dead, empty, and lifeless; nothing moved, the water was still.

The dark feeling Shakvail had seen earlier persisted. She felt a strange presence, an unrecognizable, displaced energy. It was vapid, dull, not the vibrant presence of a living being, or even the harsh edged wrath of a dark side fouled monster. Instead the sensation crept along the base of her skin, counter-current to the chill of the water, tingling and lurking.

It felt of hunger.

"Shakvail, anything down there?" Wol's voice came into her ear through the comlink.

"Nothing," she muttered, words garbled by liquid.

There was a quick grunt. "Check the banks, look for something hiding there."

It was hard to see detail even two meters down, but Shakvail acted on this impulse. She slid along the bank, feeling in the rough mud and leveled stone there.

The sense of hunger increased.

After some time, drifting downstream a little, perhaps ten meters from the bridge, she found a hole. It was a rough thing, elliptical rather than circular, and crumbling. She pressed down close to it.

Hunger spiked in the water.

Movement betrayed the thing, which barely registered in the Force. It shot free of the hole, twisting and screeching with great speed.

Jedi training and reflexes proved barely enough there in the water, as Shakvail's hand closed on the back of the thing as it lurched toward her face.

She surged to the surface, breaching the plane in the next moment and launching a Force-enhanced jump to blast onto shore.

Wol was already running, as the Safol struggled to hold the thing in her hand.

It was vaguely worm-like, but flattened and ovular, not round. Not soft, its surface was hard, a smooth brown coating that felt slick and shiny. It was ridged on both edges, and only by grasping those could the Jedi hold the thrashing thing. As long as her arm and almost as thick, the front end was capped by a shielded head, topped with a radial mouth that held a series of whorls, sharpened layers of jagged-edged teeth. Locked in an impenetrable circle, this rasping keratin shot forward again and again as the creature tried to make contact with exposed skin.

Though that vicious maw, powered by hunger and energy to lash out with surprising strength, was shockingly alien and brutal to look upon, it was less frightening to the Jedi than the creature's image in the Force. It had nothing like the presence of a living creature, instead it exuded the miasma of death, a pile of rotting debris hungry to add more to itself, to consume and consume until everything was gone.

The dark side emanated from it in every direction.

Locked in a desperate struggle to keep her hold on the worm-thing and prevent it from raking her face with those ragged tooth-whorls, Shakvail found she was oddly stuck. Both hands were required to maintain that shifting, contorted wrestling match as the creature thrashed and twisted, and all her focus as well.

Then Wol arrived.

The hunter reacted with great speed. Wisely selecting his belt knife over the heavy slugthrower he wore as his weapon of choice, he brought the wickedly sharp edge down in an overhand cross designed to take the monstrosity's head clean off.

The knife, laser sharpened and capable of scoring a mark in transparisteel, struck the creature with a solid thuck-sound. The hardened cuticle chipped and cracked, but did not break.

Shakvail's eyes widened.

Then they rose even further as the creature shifted, shook, and began to fracture.

It slid apart in her hands, calving into long, slender pieces as if it was being fed through a separator machine. Difficult to sense in the Force as the thing was, and as disturbing as it was to have it come apart in her hands, it took several seconds for the Jedi to realize that it was not breaking into pieces, but dissolving into many tiny copies of itself, each roughly the size of an earthworm. When they plummeted to the ground at her feet, they continued to squirm.

Immediately Shakvail threw the thing to the earth of the riverbank, jumping in surprise. "Get back!" she shouted at Wol. The Spri'Lek's eyes stared at the tableau, captured by this horrific disintegration.

The earthworm-sized versions began to slink back toward the river.

Shakvail refused to allow it to escape, but her mind blanked regarding a method to retain several hundred squirming worms. In an expression of very human instinct she charged forward and stomped on the nearest with her boot.

It compressed beneath her weight, but failed to crush.

Seeking any option, she turned to her principle weapon. The Jedi's lightsaber burst brightly in the dimness, and she made two quick slashes along the ground.

Worms ignited at the touch of the transparent green blade, curling and smoldering, but the weapon destroyed only those it physically contacted, and Shakvail's snap assessment was clear; she'd never get more than a handful that way. She needed another solution.

Curling flames sprouted from a tuft of sedges clipped by the lightsaber during her strike, and as the edge of her wide vision slid across them, the answer became clear.

She reached down and pulled up several grassy clumps. Holding them in her left hand, she applied her lightsaber to the far end, setting them aflame. Then she tossed her burning brands atop the dispersing pile of worm-like monsters.

The only sound as they burned was the crackle and spark of torching grass, but Shakvail felt a dark cloud, a concentration of distorted energy, pull apart and melt away as the fire claimed them.

"What in the stars was that?" Wol blurted when it was done.

"I'm not sure," Shakvail did not like those words, it made her feel vulnerable. Something was abroad on Nylath she didn't understand. Touched by the dark side it had already seriously injured many, and she could feel that this was only the faintest expression of what might be unleashed. "Something vile, unnatural, a creation of Sith alchemy perhaps."

"That explains the splitting," Wol nodded, his head-tails shaking, revealing rattled nerves. "But that form, I've never seen anything like it."

"I wonder," Shakvail felt as if she had. The thing stirred old memories, things learned long ago and rarely touched upon later.

She pulled out her datapad. Its internal database was limited, but she had access to a better one. While the Jedi Archives were separated by the vast gulf of half a galaxy and the considerably greater restriction that was Nylath's lack of a private Holocom network, this wasn't Shakvail's first field assignment, and she'd made provisions for the next best thing. A short com transmission to her field camp put her in touch with a reasonable condensed facsimile. "Maybe Krare has the answer," she muttered, inputting search terms.

"Who's Krare?" Wol questioned, with confusion written on his weathered face.

"Droid brain," Shakvail had purchased a second hand analysis droid to accompany her on her first field op to Radrack, only to discover that, unlike Jedi Padawans, droids were slow, cumbersome, and had a troubling tendency to get shot, stolen, and chopped. So, after recovering the remains of the unit, she'd decided to keep only the important parts, the high-powered processors and sorting software, and store it in a box.

That she no longer had to listen to the thing natter incessantly was also a plus.

The Jedi quickly called up a search of the zoological database. 'Elongate body structure, ovular, not tube, hardened cuticle, no external organs, jawless mouth, return images only.' She suspected text would be of little use in matching up a creation of Sith Alchemy to natural life.

Several pictures popped up on the small screen immediately. The first was almost a perfect match for what she'd observed, save for one small discrepancy, it was a false color electron micrograph.

That filled in the missing gap in memory all on its own. "Nematode," Shakvail hissed.

"Nema-what?" Wol looked over her shoulder at the picture. "That's the Sithspawn, for sure."

"Soil-dwelling worms," Shakvail pulled up the text file beneath, paraphrasing what came back now from old lectures. "Mostly detrivores, but some parasites, some predators; the biology is simplistic, a sort of no-frills approach, but it works, the things are massively abundant."

"Never seen anything like it before," the hunter scowled.

"That's because they're more or less microscopic," Shakvail's mind was racing, following twining paths of intellectual speculation and Force-based intuition, shooting forward like a rocket to seek answers. "The thing broke apart when struck, they must be somehow conglomerating, massing together to meld into a creature orders of magnitude larger."

"Can they do that?"

"No, they can't," the Jedi pressed her lips together tightly, her eyes racing back and forth, staring at nothing as she sought a solution. What had happened earlier was, so far as she knew, biologically impossible. Shakvail would be the first to concede that many secrets of galactic zoology were outside her knowledge, but on a planet with a Sith legacy, no matter how limited it had supposedly been, she was far more inclined to bet on the dark side. "There must be some source, some power that enabled this." She turned to Wol. "Have there been any new off-world arrivals recently?"

"Not out here," the hunter was part of an informal network of backcountry operators who helped maintain the law, such as it was, beyond the riverside villages. "Things have been mostly quiet lately."

This was not sufficient for the Safol. "Mostly?" she pressed.

"Well, there was that rockslide up by Lake Vulon," the hunter shrugged.

"Rockslide?"

Wol looked uncomfortable. "An accident," he conceded. "Some buddies got in on a dare, went up to the ruins there, by the lake. They found something live and it went off. Two dead and the whole side of the hill caved in."

Forgotten ordinance was among the few truly practical reasons to avoid Nylath's fifteen hundred year old ruins, though it was a rare outpost that contained anything substantial. The Jedi knew a leftover missile powerful enough to collapse a hillside meant the location had been comparatively important. "Where's Lake Vulon?" Asking Wol was quicker than consulting her map.

"Hundred-fifty klicks upriver."

"Upriver," the Force thrummed through that word, filling it with portent.

Shakvail seized upon the impulse, thinking hard. "Upriver, upriver…" Her eyes closed as she focused, trying to put the pieces together, to grasp the problem. Fortress collapse, alchemically-altered microbial predators, attacks in the water…there was a connection, she was sure of it.

"Kriff!" She spat as her eyes snapped open.

"What is it?" Shocked by the profanity from the Jedi, Wol stepped back almost a full meter.

"It's upriver," she answered. "The source of this, there has to be something, some kind of artifact that changed the nematodes. It must have fallen into the lake in the collapse. What happened here, what hurt the villagers, that was just a piece of it, swept downstream, broken off like it did after you hit it with your knife."

"Broken off," Wol's eyes widened in comprehension. "But the pieces were so much smaller..."

"I know," Shakvail snapped, worry making her unusually terse. "You with me on this Wol?" She asked, hating that she had too, but for all his stoic strength, Wol was a Spri'Lek, and they were not a valorous people. When he nodded, she knew her corresponding smile was written all over her face.

It faded quickly, as she imagined what might be happening even as they stood there. "Speeders, now!" She decided.

They ran for the parked bikes, and kicked them into motion immediately when they reached them. Staring upriver, one hundred and fifty kilometers suddenly seemed an insurmountable distance. Heedless of the damage she was about to do to her vehicle, Shakvail gunned the little repulsorcraft for everything the engine had.

Wol, his speeder in slightly better shape than the Jedi's, took the lead. They did not bother with Nylath's limited road network, but charged upriver directly, blasting across the water leaving sweeping fountains behind them.

Her concentration split, trusting the Force to warn her of dangers, Shakvail pulled her wrist com up to her mouth, shouting against the wind and spray. "Doctor Lamiss, come in, I repeat, come in Doctor Lamiss."

The doctor answered in his own good time, and added a serpentine hiss of irritation when he connected. "Yes, Jedi?"

"We found the problem," Shakvail bit back any barbs that came to mind and stuck to the facts, lives were at stake now. "The wounds were caused by attacks from massively enlarged nematodes, produced by some kind of Sith alchemy."

"Alchemy, that's absurd-"

"Save it doc," the Jedi cut him off, in no mood for the alien's obstinacy. "Check the injuries against you image files, they match nematode teeth perfectly." She grabbed a deep breath as the river passed below. "I need you to get the authorities to move, quarantine the river, have it treated with some kind of nematode-killing pesticide," Shakvail's memory held vague recollections of nematodes as agricultural pests, which meant there was some form of killing agent available. "Make sure they get the whole river, source to sea, leave nothing untouched."

There was a pause, and the Jedi felt the weight of the moment, the decision of the Sluissi doctor holding the fate of thousands in his hands, yet she did not doubt the outcome.

"I will send the word out, I can have a quarantine declared within the hour." Lamiss sighed.

"Thanks doctor," Shakvail managed a weak smile. Always bet on a caution with the Sluissi. "I owe you one. Gotta go, there's worse upriver."

As she cut off the transmission she knifed in toward the riverbank, cutting hard turns as rushes scrapped the bottom of her chassis, moving to catch up to the hunter in front.

They had to hurry.

Winding and weaving, screaming past oxbows, jumping waterfalls, and bouncing through rapids, they strove the way upstream, spawning fish on speeders, the first Nylath had known. It was a difficult journey, but Wol was a skilled rider, and Shakvail had the Force. They suffered no mishaps, but the speeders guttered and sparked, and both were on the verge of failure by the time they crossed the last distance, streaking out onto the flat surface of Lake Vulon.

The rock-slide was obvious, and the Jedi angled for it immediately.

A massive pile of scree gouged a path through the eastern bank of the lake, a high wall rising a full thirty meters above the waterline. At the top of that pile the ruined stony spires of the ancient Sith outpost could still be seen, broken and smashed, crushed in the one great Spri'Lek military success.

Shakvail made for that side.

They reached the stony shore beside the debris, shattered rocks from pebbles to boulders, a chaotic collection born from the anarchy of high explosives. Looking at the blast, the Jedi thought it odd. It did not seem accidental, random. No, what she was looking at, even with her limited understanding of explosives, was different, it was channeled...directed.

"Trap!" she announced, just as the Force cried a warning.

"Wol, get to high ground!" Shakvail had only time enough to shout this warning before she was inexorably turned toward the water, her every sense filled with that horrible half-dead hunger from the nematode creations.

A creature the size of her arm had been bad enough; this was unbelievably worse.

The Jedi stood on the shore, her lightsaber took life in her hands.

A massive pillar of liquid rose high into the air as something immense burst free. Water fell aside, compelled by gravity, and in its absence revealed a monster.

"Kriff..." Shakvail muttered.

It was a true giant, fifty meters in length if it was one, and five meters around. Its interlaced whorls of tooth plates scraped and scythed together, a jagged grater ready to shear anything that it contacted. It was a foul ocher color, and reeked of rot.

The monstrosity shown in the Force, an inverted star of darkness.

Having risen from the depths of the lake, it proceeded to surge forward, crashing down in a lunge to smother and dice the Jedi.

Shakvail jumped back in time, forewarned, but the creature struck the stones below. The horrendous impact produced a massive shock wave, and she was thrown through the air, spinning.

Drawing on the Force, the Jedi took control of her motions, landing on her feet some ways upwards.

Eyeless though it was, the monster somehow sensed her, Shakvail would have bet it was through smell, and thrashed its way upwards to attack again.

Using its momentum against it, the Safol drew on the Force, powering into a great leap. Controlling her motion she flashed through the air, and her lightsaber turned in her hands, directed in a massive overhand strike down behind the head.

The glowing green blade struck that brownish surface, waxy and shining and sank deep. In the next moment, the creature thrashed and whipped its body in rage, throwing this stinging interloper free, but the Force made it clear it was unharmed.

Shakvail's eyes went wide, and she landed unbalanced, rolling and sliding to hit hard next to the thing, stymied.

"Only a glance!" she barked, loosing her composure for a moment as pain came over her. It was visible behind her eyes at a thought, a small narrow hole, the only evidence that she had cut into that skin whatsoever.

The nematode rolled.

Scrambling, Shakvail ran back in a crab walk, jumping for the upper bank. She landed awkwardly, sending a spike of pain through her feet. Shaken, she struggled to evade as the thing shifted to bowl her under its great bulk.

Bang!

A loud rapport, followed by two more in swift succession, split the air. Little fountains of pulverized wax sprayed away from the creature's head.

Wol had fired.

The Jedi's head bent, and her eyes sought to observe the damage the hunter's high-caliber slugthrower had wrought.

Durasteel slugs, thick as a thumb, the weapon was powerful enough to bring down any game on Nylath, and the dark side creature was pierced deep, metal chunks penetrating meters inward.

Yet it was unharmed.

"No blood," Shakvail realized, truly grasping the utter simplicity of the thing now. "No organs, and that cuticle so thick..." Her perception fixated on that thing, and she saw for the first time in her life a creature without a weakness. It was armored in simplicity. Only massive damage could destroy it.

Hefting her lightsaber, she thought there might be a way.

The monster had turned toward Wol, slithering up the rock-slide in an attempt to devour the rapidly retreating hunter. Aided by the Force, the Jedi charged in, easily cutting across that pathway.

Her hand snapped back, and she threw.

Shakvail's lightsaber whipped through the air in a curled arc, striking straight up the jagged teeth of the thing's maw.

The glowing green blade scrapped across the surface of one of the teeth, but failed to penetrate.

"Stang!" she jumped back, extending a hand to call her weapon back as she dodged away again. "I need an opening."

The giant nematode gave chase.

"Need to...penetrate...the...mouth," Shakvail's words spilled free of her consciousness as she ran, the ground rumbling beneath her as the thing pursued. Only by the aid of the Force did she stay one step ahead, but a single stumble would doom her now.

The lightsaber had failed, but another weapon had struck deep, and it was that Shakvail needed now. To do so, however, was to jeopardize Wol as well. She could not fail then.

Knowing this, she straightened, and drew strength. She would succeed, for it was the only way to save him.

"Shoot it!" she called to the hunter. "Shoot its mouth!"

"Where?" Wol yelled back, running as he tried to make an escape of his own.

There was no time to find a good method to signal, so Shakvail improvised. She slashed down in her own path, cutting free a portion of her own robe. Taking it in her left hand, she let it free, embracing the rush of nerve impulses that wanted to overwhelm her as she did so.

Focus shifted as the Breaker Trance overcame her, and all fell into place, seizing on the insight she had already developed. The scrap of fabric left her outstretched hand, caught on the wind, and pressed down again on the outer edge of a monstrous tooth.

"There!"

Wol, meters beyond, dropped to one knee, took aim, and fired.

A heavy slug pierced through that tooth, breaking open a crack.

The Jedi's left hand whipped down to her belt, yanking forth a small grapple and line.

She spun the device in rapid circles, before snapping it forward.

It struck a ridge of cuticle atop the creature.

The pull of the mighty thing's incredible strength and vast momentum ripped her around in a wide curve, torque dominating.

As she drew parallel with the creature's maw Shakvail threw.

Her lightsaber passed across the thing's path even as it's wielder was carried up and behind to land atop the monster's back. The hilt of the blade flashed in front of the monster, passing over the gap opened by a heavy slug only moments ago just as it was about to be swallowed up.

The green blade glanced off the tooth on the other side, and in striking was pushed aside so the hilt flipped perpendicular and the lightsaber fell through that gap, descending into the bowels of the nematode.

Shakvail, riding the back of the monster, ran forward, charging to the front even as it rolled to crush this middling interloper. Flicking her grapple free, she vaulted out into the open, somersaulting through the air.

In that moment, she reached out into the Force, and took hold of her lightsaber once again.

As she wove a three-dimensional spinning dance through the sky in front of the monster, her blade mirrored her motion even as it fell back the opposite way.

There was no sound, but the air rent with expectation.

Shakvail dropped to her feet at the base of the Sith ruins, the nematode creation slithering behind.

With every meter its thrashing grew more labored, weaker, and distraught. Tears and scrapes appeared on the cuticle. It grew slower and slower.

Then the mouth crashed to the ground a single step behind Shakvail.

One final time the nematode squirmed, each end standing high, reaching desperately for the sky. Then they slammed down to the broken earth once more.

The dark side energy faded almost instantly.

Jedi and hunter turned to watch the massive thing begin to melt away, breaking into smaller and smaller versions of itself before each liquified and began to slowly flow back down toward the lake.

"Stang," Wol muttered, coming up beside Shakvail. "It's dead, right?"

"In a sense, it already was," the Jedi answered, her own body quivering from all she had put through it recently. She could barely manage to stand up straight. "But this particular threat is ended, yes."

After a moment, when she had managed to gather a little strength together, she walked down through that fading ooze. While the nematode was dissipating as if it had never been, two things remained. One was her lightsaber, unmarked by its ordeal, jade scroll work shining in the dim light as always.

The second was similar in size, but otherwise bore no resemblance at all. A hexagonal prism, it was elongate, columnar, and jet black with strange marking glyphs in a silver shade. It gave off a strange, shadowy echo of power, and misuse. The dark side energy so recently gathered to it was dissipated now, lost into the background radiation of reality itself, no longer a threat.

Even so, Shakvail took care. She held out an arm to hold Wol back, even as the hunter's curiosity drew him forward. Wrapping a sheath of the Force about her hand, she reached down and picked up the thing, gingerly, careful to minimize contact even through her gloves.

There was a flash of...something...some misty vision of ancient origins as she touched the object. It swirled through her, reaching into the depths of her cells, to a memory carried not in the brain, but deeper, in the living record of her existence that was genetic material. Eyes reaching to the edges of her sockets, her twisted, fractured vision looked down upon the object and saw those glyphs again, the wrapped silver markings now revealed to her, a distinctive shape know everywhere in the galaxy.

A double helix form. DNA.

Her perception journeyed deeper, spiraling down the branches of a vast and luminous tree, across generations and ages, planets and sectors, tunneling through hyperspace on the way back to a single, essential point. Tall towers and ziggurats rose on the back of a damaged world, enslaved to the city that crawled over its surface. Battles raged and beings toiled in the shadows of ancient overlords whose mastery was born of darkness twisted through the honeycomb of all life.

Yet this legacy was imperfect, flawed, slaved to dark powers that eroded its core strength and knowledge. It would be another, broader, adaptable, tenacious in its flexibility, that would rise high and break free, and come to dominate all before it.

Shakvail looked upon the world where it was forged, and knew it, and as her mind fled the crumbling vision as the ruptured afterimage of the Force energy unleashed in death gave way, she acquired a unique, necessary label, one the gifts of the Jedi allowed her to interpret across the gulf of time.

"Denon," she whispered, as she dropped the artifact to the ground.

"What about Denon?" Wol, voiced worried, questioned.

"This came from there," Shakvail's body shook once, then was sound again, the momentary disassociation past. "It is not Sith, no, much older, no doubt passed down through various lords of the dark ways through time. It was part of some kind of machinery, some method to manipulate living things."

"To make monsters?" the memory of the nematode creation was fresh in both minds.

"Maybe, but I don't think so," the Jedi answered. It was a cruel artifact, of this she had no doubt, but it had a greater purpose than the use the Sith had found for it. "Regardless, it's dead now, all the power in it is lost. It could be shattered with a hammer."

"Then destroy it," Wol urged.

A simple suggestion, but Shakvail made a deliberate effort to consider it, though it would not have been her choice. "No," she decided a moment later. "That is not my decision to make, the Council must learn of this, and it shall be their choice." She stood, and wrapped the artifact carefully within a loose bandage. "It seems I shall be returning sooner than I anticipated."

"Leave Nylath?" Wol was crestfallen.

"It is time," the Jedi offered him a smile. "We must report this incident, and I will wrap up my research, but I must head back to Coruscant very soon. This overshadows everything else I have found here, and it must be reported in person."

"It will be a shame too lose you," Wol spoke sourly. "We had welcomed a Jedi champion, it has made us feel stronger."

"Build on that then, Wol," she told him, hopeful at the sentiment. "The Spri'Lek people must find their own steel, if they are to rise up and hold their own. Remember today; I could not have defeated it without your help."

"I will remember," the hunter acknowledged.

It was a heartening sign, that this man was willing to fight. The Spri'Lek were too willing to embrace weakness, to suffer whatever they must in order to insure survival. It had insured their existence in a callous galaxy for now, but it would not last. Nylath needed its own heroes, and she believed Wol could well be one. Yet her mind was not fully dedicated to that problem now, for a vision pulled at her perception, her first tantalizing glimpse of origins, one guided now by a single name: Denon.

Her mind was made up, and she knew where her journey must take her now. The interlude was over, and it was time for her to face the mystery she had become a Jedi to master.

Anticipation fought with fear in her, and she felt poised on a precipice.

Two years in the field had forged a devotion to practicality that soon won out over the allure of the ethereal, however, and Shakvail's focus returned to the present moment.

"Now then, I think we need to call the doctor," she reached for her comlink.

One monster fallen, revealing a connection between ancient and present. It had a meaning for the galaxy, surely. The answer beckoned on a distant world, a place of both power and neglect, buried deep beneath many layers of concealment and time.

Only a Jedi, with the Force as her ally, would be able to plunge through that landscape and succeed.

Shakvail turned toward the stars, hidden behind ruddy clouds. She was ready.

**Notes**

Spri'Leks are a near-Twi'Lek species, the result of an developmental mutation and Sith manipulation of their genetic code. They are my own invention.

Cerale, rtace, and yei, these names for invented grains are variations on 'rye' a crop suited for cold weather.

Wol carries a slugthrower, not a blaster, as the simpler technology is easier to produce and maintain in the distant Outer Rim.

Nematodes, of course, are real animals, and size-manipulation aside, I have attempted to accurately represent their biology.


End file.
